Last night I began my search in earnest for a new home. It was terrifying. I think the only way I’m going to handle the process is by writing about it in the style of an American teen dromedy.
The lady with a strong Eastern European slur who showed me a self contained studio shook her head.
“You’re quite tall aren’t you?”
I am. 6 foot 2 to be exact. Which was slightly taller than the room itself. Trying desperately not to get wedged between the floor and the ceiling I did the whole “what’s the storage space like?” before announcing that I was “looking for a bit more space”. Like maybe a few inches above my head.
When I got back to Len’s place (four awful rooms later) I felt like throwing myself at his feet and begging him to let me stay in his darling wee apartment forever & ever. Then Will called with news of his new place, just off Tottenham Court Road, walking distance to everywhere
, just needs a lick of paint… I tried really hard not to sound dejected.
I need a home. And some new shoes. Home. Shoes. Then I won’t need anything ever again.