When I got to Brighton I’m sure I didn’t realize exactly what it would take to find a flat. A swathe of alternative candidates are whirring around, getting the paper at 8 and phoning every available property immediately. It’s a sellers’ market. And so I have now seen 14 flats, and am still seemingly not at the end of this ludicrous quest.
House no. 1 – Up on top of a hill a fair enough distance away, this place seemed fairly nice until the other occupier revealed himself to be crazed and furious.
House no. 2 – Quite nearby, this one. Scouse musician guy. Nice enough place, but he never called to offer me the room.
House no. 3 – A half hour walk into darkest Hove, this place was completely unfurnished apart from a temporary indoor football kit. I said no.
House no. 4 – Convenient location, this one, but, when all is said and done, the lack of furniture or residents put me off, and the part about having to get through a corner shop to get into it.
House no. 5 – A friend of a friend’s place, nice enough, but not available for a while, apparently.
House no. 6 – A desolate sixties skyscraper on crack-addict hill. The mustachioed old man who opened the door had a vague air of violence about him and gave me detailed instructions on what I could do in his elaborately decorated regency reproduction living room. No.
House no. 7 – In an old hotel on the seafront, a tiny little box room with a tiny toilet at the back. No cooker, no facilities, a tiny little window and the paint peeling off the walls due to dry rot. The estate agent tried to pretend she was making an effort to sell the place but it didn’t work.
House no. 8 – The best so far – a formidable mansion run by a middle age hippy woman and her children. Really very nice, but not available for another week and a half. I’ll find out tomorrow if I’ve got it, though I’m sure I’ve got a good deal of competition.
House no. 9 – A guy I’d spoken to the day before, reasonably alright, but not too great. He didn’t call back, but no big deal.
House no. 10 – Ludicrously camp guy, a bit too much. The house was pretty nice, but I wasn’t too bothered he didn’t call back.
House no. 11 – Nice house up on a hill. Cool Indian girl. Still waiting on that call.
House no. 12 – A little too businesslike this one, seven bedrooms all being competed over, instant deposit handover or nothing. When I turned up there was nobody there, so I waited by the door, ringing the bell. A car pulled up with a Turkish man and his son, who introduced themselves to me. He introduced himself to me and showed me around, or rather he insisted I show him around. I thought it must just be his way. It was only after five minutes that the real landlord arrived and we both realised that neither of us was the landlord.
The house wasn’t great.
House no. 13 – Luckily, number thirteen was better, and just around the corner too. I may well be calling back right now.
House no. 14 – But number 14 was a bit rubbish, and already taken.
I’ve had enough of all this. While writing, number 8 has fallen through. Damnit. Number 13?