On coming full circle

Some of the die hard readers out there may remember that I started this blog way back in November 2010, and my very first post was about saving a flat deposit.  You may also recall that I swiftly learnt that I wasn't actually very good at saving money and abandoned that plan. I was young (er) and foolish and liked shopping in Zara.

But somehow, in a turn of events that is still quite incomprehensible to me, I have managed to amass just enough money to reasonably pass as a deposit.

I no longer live in the capital city, but I do still live in an expensive part of the UK where it’s not unheard of to pay 50k for a parking spot.

So, upon abandoning all hope of a parking space, a garden, or a kitchen island (the moment I will truly know I am an adult) I have begun the flat hunt.

I have learnt the following about flat hunting.

1. Estate agents are doing you the favour. Now I know you’re thinking ‘but they make their money by selling houses.’ You are wrong. Showing you around property is very inconvenient for them. It cannot happen at short notice. It definitely cannot happen outside of office hours. Learn this early on, lest be continually annoyed and frustrated.

2. The estate agent will constantly state the blooming obvious. You will be standing in a room with a sink, oven and fridge. You will be discussing the dinners you will make in said room. They will still insist on stating (for the record) that you are currently in the kitchen.

3. Windows are no longer called windows, they are called ‘aspects.'

4. Apparently it’s not good etiquette to look too closely at people’s family photographs or through their cupboards.

5. If you want a sea view you’ll have to be prepared to knock down walls, throw away half of your possessions, de-mould a bathroom and have serious doubts on whether your bed will fit in the bedroom.

Problem is I want the sea view. Seems I'm just as foolish three years on.

What's a bit of mould between friends?

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.