The unending pursuit of flatmates.
This should be a funny story. Or could be. Only, as I write this, I have tears streaming down my face as if I’m reliving heartbreak or am watching in replay ‘the one that got away’.
I never thought finding housemates would be easy. Nor did I think it would be so hard.
Firstly there was a lovely, bubbly, rotund Pom who exchanged bond money and agreed to get fit with me. With 1 week before her impending arrival, she texted to say she could no longer come.
Then there was my second UK flatmate; an endearing young girl with a cherubic face. I thought, hoped, this one would last. 1 month later she has to return home due to family illness.
In between, sourcing others has been horrifying and comedic. The male who demanded storage for his beloved motorbike wasn’t so bad until he also specified he didn’t want to live with crazy, violent, political or religious zealots. Errrrr me neither.
Or the lovely Asian lady enroute via ship insisting on paying 3 months’ rent in advance and then failing this, that I wire across the money myself. Huh?
Someone throw me a life jacket. I think I’m drowning.