In The Cold, Cold Night

Finally get access and time enough to blog. Feel as though there is little point relating anything but the tragic story of how my simple dream of a new job and a new home fell apart. The story of why I am now living in a garden shed. The story of how I was attacked by a nine inch high canine on my quest for a toilet break.

The story plays out like this; its Monday the 5th of November, and I'm starting my new job. It's on the other side of the country to my home town, and the short notice has meant I'm staying in a basic hotel, breakfast not included. I had arrived into the town on the previous night to a cascade of fireworks for bonfire night, which somewhat alleviated the stress of carrying my own bodyweight in clothes along the two-mile hike from the train station. Somewhat.

My first day goes well. My boss is nice, as is her boss and her boss's boss. The team I'm set to work in are all friendly. I sit in a state of constant terror, natch, frozen in front of reams of text I can barely comprehend. Constant assurances are hurled at me that I'll "pick it up soon". They're probably right. Evening came and morning came; the first day.

Second day is a easier. Find out where the toilets are, strike up (albeit stilted) dialogue with who I guess I should refer to as 'my colleagues'. Crack the odd joke. No-one seems to notice; this is probably a good thing. The hotel is depressing, but I am buoyed by the fact that on Friday I will be moving into my own brand spanking new flat, furnished and lovely. Evening came and morning came; the second day.

Third day, fourth day, fifth day - all fairly similar. I'm beginning to understand how this real world thing works. Only problem being my housing plans have fallen through. So three more weeks in a hotel, oh the ecstatic joy you can imagine I felt!

To save a bit of money, I stay in a bed-and-breakfast. Unfortunately, the only room I found was in the garden shed. Bathroom facilities are in the house, it's below freezing outside (and possibly in here) and whenever I stick my head outside a troop of tiny yapping dogs go crazy for my (albeit delectable) ankles.

Epilogue
I spend three weeks in the hotel. I finally move into my flat at the start of December. It takes all of that month to get a phoneline installed (possible upcoming rant post about the hideous evil that is British Telecom call centres I hear you say?). It takes most of the next month to get a broadband line installed in my flat, and I take another six weeks off from blogging just for good measure (read: fear).

Anyway, I'm back now.

Going Missing

It has been, to say the least, a tumultous three days since last I posted here. One spent in frenzy, one spent recovering, and today spent with the weight of the future dropping once again squarely on my shoulders. And yet, in a delightful twist in the tale of fate and flat-hunting, everything has fallen neatly into place. What a pleasant surprise, especially considering the near-disaster that Wednesday was.

Three flats to look at, in three towns. The first in what has been described to me as a "sleepy little commuter town" outside London. More like "town of the dead, or those soon to be so". To say that the flat and building felt like a retirement home was not an exaggeration. I am twenty-two, and refuse to live in a flat that comes furnished with a ceramic pig, a communal garden shared with pensioners and a faint but persistent stench of stale urine.

Flat number two was a first-floor place in a building so new that not only was the carpet still shrink-wrapped, but I was informed the third and fourth floor weren't actually finished yet. Astronomically expensive but just oh-so-nice. Which didn't exactly prepare me for the third and final property.

Now, I know estate agents (or realters if you like) don't have a reputation for desperately spilling all their proverbial beans on you, so I assume when you walk into an apartment to view and your guide says "it's not gonna take long to look round" that it's going to be small. But, dear God, why? Why did anyone think that building something so tiny was a good idea?

So maybe it was small and cosy? No, why bother with that? In fact, why bother with a cupboard (in this furnished flat) when a curtain in front of a wall full of holes and with a stick jammed in there will do just as well? No need for an oven either, just this stone-age microwave that looks like it will cook anyone stood within half a mile, that'll do.

And it's really not worth re-painting the walls. Blood red and lime green is a classic combination. And the dust and filth take the edge of the headaches anyway. And to be honest, with this smell you'll probably just go outside more often, so who cares if the sofa should have an attached Hazmat sign?

You'll never guess which one I went for.