Hidden Away Like Mrs. Rochester
With the departure of the Norwegian Rock God to Brighton (apparently it is easier to be ascending star in the musical firmament down there than it is in Bayswater), new candidates to leave pools of water on the bathroom floor are being sought. During the interview process and grand tour of the house candidates were given on Sunday, I was hidden away like Mrs. Rochester. A strange and weathered looking writer is not an asset when trying to find someone able to pay £150 per week for a room in a house share.
Potential contenders for the prize of living in one of London’s most soul-warming spots and having to suffer me taking over the kitchen when I cook include a corporate Canadian from Calgary, a fashion journalist from Harper’s Bazaar, a Canadian Lesbian couple and an Irishwoman. The Calgarian looks like being the favourite. This is due in part because he seems “inoffensive”. Having sometimes lived amongst Canadians, I think inoffensive is not so much an individual trait, more like the default national character setting. As long as innocuous is not merely a cover for a sufferer from an anxiety disorder, the Calgarian has to be preferable to someone who was talking about people they knew on Cosmopolitan within 10 minutes of being over the threshold. I accept my life must often resemble a bad soap opera, but I will be damned if it is going to degenerate into something akin a sub-plot from Ugly Betty.
Given I have spent less than 50 hours in London during the last six weeks, I know should be probably less concerned about the goings on there. However, my heart is in London. Living in exile from where it resides can make you feel hollow, drifting through empty days possessed of a surreal, nightmarish quality. Whether it is a Calgarian, fashion fascist, lesbians or an Irishwoman leaving pools of water in the bathroom, I cannot wait to be back home.
Potential contenders for the prize of living in one of London’s most soul-warming spots and having to suffer me taking over the kitchen when I cook include a corporate Canadian from Calgary, a fashion journalist from Harper’s Bazaar, a Canadian Lesbian couple and an Irishwoman. The Calgarian looks like being the favourite. This is due in part because he seems “inoffensive”. Having sometimes lived amongst Canadians, I think inoffensive is not so much an individual trait, more like the default national character setting. As long as innocuous is not merely a cover for a sufferer from an anxiety disorder, the Calgarian has to be preferable to someone who was talking about people they knew on Cosmopolitan within 10 minutes of being over the threshold. I accept my life must often resemble a bad soap opera, but I will be damned if it is going to degenerate into something akin a sub-plot from Ugly Betty.
Given I have spent less than 50 hours in London during the last six weeks, I know should be probably less concerned about the goings on there. However, my heart is in London. Living in exile from where it resides can make you feel hollow, drifting through empty days possessed of a surreal, nightmarish quality. Whether it is a Calgarian, fashion fascist, lesbians or an Irishwoman leaving pools of water in the bathroom, I cannot wait to be back home.
Labels: House share
2 Comments:
Yikes. My first houseshare in Reading was 75 quid a month! I guess times have changed.
Good luck with the quest. It's always a crap shoot.
It is the most fabulous bit of London...
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