As the
move south is just one month away, it was about time I found somewhere to live.
This was not, I might add, like flat hunting in Edinburgh, which is jam-packed full
of the blasted things. No, St Ives, it transpires,
is a baron wasteland of habitable rental properties.
There were
times when living in a caravan was looking like an extremely appealing option.
Choosing a
house – sorry, flat, sorry, box – to rent is not fun, not at all.
I do not
care if the bathroom suite is avocado, but I do care if damp covers an entire
wall. 'I’ve never seen it like this before' insisted the estate agent. And I
will not be seeing it again – period.
It is
genuinely not considered good etiquette to comment on the cleanliness in front
of the people who live there. 'I don’t think this house has ever been cleaned,' I
muttered under my breath at the sight of a number of dead insects on the
kitchen lino.
‘Don’t
mind the wife - she’s just in bed with the norovirus – go on in,’ said an enthusiastic tenant. I breathed in
and popped my head round the door. Then made a mad dash to the exit and bathed in
antibacterial hand-wash.
The final
straw was viewing a flat in a converted attic. The owners couldn't find the
keys to the door, so I had to go up through the entrance in their home. As I
entered the flat the owner laughed, 'Don’t worry, once you live here that door
will be always be locked.'
I was
about to move into a Bronte novel.
So one thing is certain, when you finally find
somewhere that is mould free, does not have a carpeted bathroom or things
growing on the lino, you will not remember anything about it – like how big the
lounge is, or whether you can fit a table in the kitchen. You will simply be glad that you will not be
living in Mr Rochester’s attic.
