Flattie
It’s flat-mate hunting time. Again. I’ve got to get somebody in before the end of the month. Ads have gone out, and my second potential flat-mate turned up today. It’s like extreme dating seeing a potential flat-mate, particularly when it’s a two-bedroom place. “Sure, pop round. Let’s hang out. See each other again? Why not. Go for a film and a meal next time? Fuck that, get your stuff in and give me half the rent”.
I was quite hopeful (because I’m hopelessly and naively positive as a person) as his profile on spareroom.co.uk looked fine. He had a name, a face, and a well populated “Intersted in” section. He is interested in stuff, I thought, how bad can he be? He is interested in stuff. Hobbies are definitely good signs. It could be Andrew Lloyd Webber and beastiality for all I care. Keeps him in his room and out of my way.
He was due at 7. And turned up on time. Good sign. He was a Romanian fella, called Dave (didn’t make sense to me either) and arrived with his wife, Mari (nice name, and a very good-looking woman) along with their little baby girl (didn’t catch her name, hard to catch names, or anything else, when you are in utter shock).
They walked round the place like it was a B’n’B they were decidedly unimpressed with (join the club), roaming through the kitchen checking for dust on the surfaces. Of which there was none (ha!). Then they went into my room and complained at the size. Turns out they thought it was the whole place that was for rent. Not just the small single room, next door to mine, which is actually for rent. So, they didn’t take anything in the end. Which is a shame, I could’ve done with a ready-made family to live with. Particularly a Romanian one who left because they couldn’t afford the rent for less than half the flat they would’ve got had they decided to take the place. I should’ve offered to throw myself in to sweeten the deal.
