The hunt for digs is on. What fresh hell will I discover this time round.
I hate flat hunting.
It’s a reminder that you can put a price on freedom and it’s somewhere between £600 and £800 pcm. It’s a small price to pay for sanity I suppose. That’s only if this group of flatmates doesn’t drive me up the wall.
On the whole I’m a live alone type of gal.
I did it for 5 years quite happily and enjoy my own company. There was no one to answer to. I could have whoever I wanted over, for as long as I wanted. No one complained about me smoking, or told me I couldn’t have a pet. I could dance around in my underwear eating Cheetos, listening to Nina Simone.
They were truly great times.
The only downsides were when I’d freak out after a Special Victims Unit marathon and barricade myself in the bedroom with the cat for protection. Or when my pervy landlord would decide to pay a visit while I was in the shower.
It was still bearable for a rent controlled, two bedroom apartment in an up and coming part of Mexico City. And all at the bargain cost of £350 a month.
I should never have left.
I definitely shouldn’t have moved into student housing.
Sharing a bathroom is the quickest way of learning that hell is other people. There’s nothing like realising someone’s been using your razor to shave their face, or your Femfresh to shower, to make you want to use their toothbrush to clean the thick ring they left in the bath tub.
I don’t like inconsiderate people.
How do you fail to realise that your hair won’t clean itself out of the drain? Or that screaming about your love life with your rabbi over Skype at 11pm on a school night isn’t considerate?
It’s a catch 22 situation.
They seem nice, like all people do in the wild. But you’re only going to really get to know them by living with them. Sometimes it’s great- like my first flatshare in Barcelona- or the well intentioned, albeit stingy, clown who would practice his schtick on me.
And sometimes you are woken up by a woman who has decided to dress exactly like you, in your clothes, and even squeeze her size 5 feet into your size 3 Nikes.
It’s like Russian roulette. Only instead of shooting yourself, you may end up with a flatmate who gets drunk and mutters menacing threats through your door, as you cry into a body pillow.
Let’s hope speed flat mate hunting holds a regular couple of alcohol loving, neat freaks to bunk down with.
Pray for me.