» Let me in!
This week Katie is hunting high and low for somewhere to lay her hat
The first flat I got in London was in Notting Hill.
“Oooo, posh!”, cooed my friends, “Notting Hill! Isn’t that where Hugh Grant lives?”
They looked so impressed with me that I didn’t have the heart to tell them that it wasn’t. Or admit that the only reason I’d moved there was because Notting Hill was the only London suburb I’d heard of – Brixton? Greenwich? Stepney Green? I didn’t have aclue. My knowledge of London ended at W1 – so when it came to flat hunting, if it wasn’t next door to Buckingham Place or round the corner from Selfridges, I was lost.
Limiting the choice to Portobello seemed the perfect solution. Even after I’d chosen an area, I was still to discover that finding a flat in London was a minefield waiting to explode; with OCD flat mates, deposit stealing landlords, houses crammed with Australian backpackers and - stranger yet -people who think it is normal to live by a cleaning rota.
“Arrive at the viewing with cash in your pocket”
When I finally found a place that seemed passable, I moved in quick and resolved never to shift again.
This week I got the bad news: my landlady is selling the flat.
And so here I am again, wandering the streets of London with an A-Z and a heart that is heavy with despair.
Finding a flat in London feels like finding a needle in a haystack. A haystack that someone has set on fire and is generously dousing with gasoline, so that every time you do find the needle it burns through your fingertips and you drop it again.
On my house hunt I arrive at my perfect flat time and time again, only to find someone standing there already and handing over money to move in. No parochial procrastinating here, they work quickly in London.
I soon learn that the modus operandi is to arrive at the viewing with the cash deposit already burning a hole in your pocket. I reluctantly withdraw £ican’ttellyouit’ssoshockinglyhigh from the bank and set up a list of viewings for the day.
Carrying large quantities of cash on your person is not so bad when the flats you are viewing are in smart areas of town, say Knightsbridge or Mayfair – mine aren’t.
I troupe through the streets of Mile End, wondering what the word ‘central’ means to an estate agent and trying to avoid eye contact with the gang of ‘yoots’.
following my progress. You can tell you have arrived in the cr*p area of town when people have moved the contents of their sitting room into the front garden. In Mile End you can hardly see the doors for piles of sofas, carpets and the occasional fridge.
Eventually, just as I’m considering building a shelter from my books on the street, my flatmate makes a viewing for a two bedroom cubbyhole near Hoxton Square.
“It’s new, it’s clean, the bedrooms are almost doubles and the area is really cool,” he gushes over the phone – as I run up and down Old Street desperately trying to locate the place. When I arrive, S is frantic, the last people want to take it, and we must act fast. The estate agent needs a decision. It’s the 15th place I’ve been to this week. It’s not near my work, it costs far more than our last place, is a much smaller space, it’s above a shop on a busy road, and I haven’t even had the chance to look inside.
“Yes,” I jump, like I’ve just won the lottery, “we’ll take it!”
