Kev
I had my third potential flatmate over to look around the place tonight. She was very judgemental. She didn’t like the new tiles for the kitchen I have almost got round to laying, she thought my new ivory coaster was very ‘a la mode’ (means modern apparently, and judging by her face, a bit shit too) and had reason to believe that my exclusively red and black living room decor felt a bit ‘bachelor’. Really? Bachelor? Well, if only these walls could talk! They could tell a few tales. Actually, they’d have very little to say as it happens. But wouldn’t it still be fun if walls could talk.
She probably won’t move in. Which means my whole spare-room webcam investment feels a little premature. If she does move in, and does read this, then that was clearly a joke. (And if you are reading this, having moved in, and don’t believe me - it’s my word against yours. My words are only on this blog and my facebook profile anyway, where I have people on my side and can edit whatever I want anyway, so there. I’ll pollyfiller the lot in, job done, all good).
After the viewing, I watched the awfully dreary Man City/Liverpool game at my local bar. Strange crowd, it looked like Shoreditch had turned up and been sick all over the place. Lots of people who were wrapped up for winter but still forgot to wear socks under their plimsoles. Good hint here. If you need scarves, gloves and bobble-hats - you need socks. It’s simple mathematics.
A guy who I’ve met a few times before spoke to me for a bit. I usually avoid him because he has overly-tapered trousers and a larger stock of cardigans than I think is necessary. But mainly because he doesn’t know my name. ‘Kevin’, he calls me. Or ‘Kev’. Even, on one depressingly humbling occasion, ‘Kevster’. Its pretty depressing to sit with someone who tries to demonstrate his familiarity to me by riffing on a name that’s not even mine.
I left early because I felt a bit fake for not correcting him on my name, again.
