A Moving Story

My God, comrades, the weekend I have had. You see, I’m moving house. I’m just down the road from my current place, though, so in true sitcom fashion basic continuity will be maintained.

For an awfully long time I’ve been unhappy with my current place, pictured left. It was really only supposed to be a temporary measure while I looked for somewhere more permanent and therefore I was prepared to overlook many of my doubts about the place, like the decor, the amount of space and the fact that my new housemates seemed to be kinda twats. Unfortunately, habit took hold. You know how it is – moving is such a hassle, house hunting is such a hassle, so once you’re settled in, as long as you’re not unhappy, might as well stick with it.

At first, this was all fine. I mean, I didn’t think I had very much in common with my new housemates, but that was probably because I didn’t know them. You know how it is – it takes a while to get to know someone, and when you’re living with them, that’s a whole new level of getting to know them. But after a couple of months, I came to realise that actually, no, I had nothing in common with them. These were people who considered me dangerously hedonistic for going out midweek. I don’t mean going out and getting absolutely lashed, I mean just going out and meeting friends. Although to my housemates, there wasn’t really much of a difference. Drinking at all = road to ruin.

Now, I’ve been in good houseshares and bad houseshares, and in a situation like this it’s going to be difficult to avoid it being a bad houseshare. Plan A was to really, really try to get on with them. Find interests to share. If we didn’t have any shared interests, well, find something they were interested in and pretend to like it. The problem with this idea was that they don’t seem to have any interests beyond sitting in front of the TV. There are only so many Family Guy reruns I can take before abandoning the experiment.

Well, when that fails, there’s plan B – involve them in the stuff I’m interested in. My friends are always welcoming to new folk, and I felt sure that a night out or two would turn things around. Unfortunately, I ran into exactly the same problem – my h0usemates are not interested in anything other than sitting in front of the TV. Attempts to get them to come out failed without exception.

And so the only way to avoid falling into the Bad Houseshare trap was Plan C – don’t hang out with them at all. I hate this, because in order to carry it out you have to be that one housemate who nobody ever sees. You know, the one who stays in his room all the time, only comes out a couple of times a day, you never know if he’s out or in? I hate that guy. But that’s what I ended up becoming. A sociable, outgoing guy on one side of the front door, on the other I was the weird and antisocial dude who keeps himself to himself and is probably a serial killer. Not cool, especially the serial killer part.

So when a friend living nearby mentioned that she had a room going spare in her place, which coincidentally happened to be very close to my current place, you can imagine my interest was piqued. Apart from anything else, it sounded like a match made in heaven. The room was going spare in her house and I was going spare in my place.

I had my doubts at first, though. It all seemed a bit sudden. Was I just leaping on this because it was a quick fix? Was it unwise of me to leap on this opportunity, purely for the sake of better housemates, a larger room and cheaper rent? The consensus of literally everybody I asked was “no, accept the offer, you idiot.” Well, they didn’t say “idiot.”

My present, soon-to-be-ex-housemates, had no particular objection beyond quibbling over when they would pay back the deposit. I just decided to say “fuckit” and let them keep it as the last month’s rent. To be honest, there are so many minor repairs that I’ve been meaning to get around to doing that I probably wouldn’t have got a lot of the deposit back anyway. But in turn, those repairs resulted from the fact that the landlord, in common with landlords everywhere, is a stingy bastard. So, basically, long story short, I couldn’t be arsed.

And so I’m moving things over. So close am I to the new place that it is actually easier to move everything by hand than to hire a van or even use a car. So that’s what I’m doing – carrying things over box by box, bag by bag. Nevertheless, one of my soon-to-be-ex housemates had the stones today to tell me that my room was looking very untidy, and that they’d like it if I could tidy it up before they showed it to prospective new housemates. This while I was in the middle of moving things over. What a dick.

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2 Comments

Filed under Current events, Meta, Psychogeography, Randomness

2 responses to “A Moving Story

  1. Jim Birch

    The difference between a good and a bad share house is possibly wider than the gap between Heaven and Hell.

  2. Pingback: In the meantime, here’s this. | London Particulars

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