Three Little Deadlines made me decide that a home was not at all an essential part of moving to Glasgow. The first thing to cross my path would do. A room in a house I'd never seen with a guy I'd never met in a suburb of Glasgow I'd never heard of crossed my path so I moved in. Not bad: the suburb is not one of Glasgow's infamous areas but is actually pretty, the connection to work is straightforward (my commute has already shrunk by 50%), the house-mate is indeed an 'agreeable 29 year old male professional' as promised. He cleans, he's orderly, he's not noisy, he's friendly, he's social, he works for a children's charity - he's the ideal housemate.
If only I hadn't outgrown the very concept of housemate. (Ok, and if only I could always understand what he says).
Therefore, exit deadlines enter house hunt. The response rate to my responses to ads suggests Glaswegians offer flats without actually wanting to let them. I nevertheless succeed in making three appointments. At the first the agent does not bring the keys, at the second the living room is so dark on an otherwise bright and sunny day (Glasgow has been kind to me) that I decide I could not survive a Glaswegian winter there, the third has me waiting on the doorstep for 40 minutes.
Not in vain though. Wooden floors, bright living room with big bay window, high decorated ceilings, humongous kitchen (with dishwasher!), bathroom with real shower as opposed to the electrical drizzle that the British are so fond of, 15 minutes WALKING from work - my home for the next two years.
The landlord (well, land-young-man) spent months rebuilding it. It shows, if one overlooks the mess scattered all over the rooms, the food scattered all over the kitchen and the pee splattered all over the toilet. The land-young-man looks in pain at the current tenant's treatment of his poor house. We are on the same wavelength.
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Comments
No mention of a guest room??