Operation Golddigger

So, my adoring public (read: 2 people) has been clamoring for a new post, and since so much has changed in my life over the past couple of months I feel it's only fair to give the people (read: those 2 aforementioned people) what they want.

You may recall from my last post that I was unemployed, living in the ghetto, and on the verge of full-blown alcoholism. Well I am happy to report that I have got two out of those three things sorted! That's right, I have moved house and am now in gainful employment. Hurray! I'm working (on a temporary but indefinite contract) as a research secretary in the Forensic Psychiatry Unit of Queen Mary University of London/St. Bart's Hospital. It sounds fancy but really, I am just the Unit Bitch. It's fine though, because achieving employment meant I could finally (re)-fulfill one of those all-important Milestones to Adulthood (no, I haven't got a dog-- there will probably be skywriting and a press release when that happens); but I am once more LIVING ALONE. And loving it. A stupid amount. Going back to living alone has done for me what Ecstasy does to drunken ravers: made me want to hug everyone I see, and then drink lots of water. Haha! Kidding about the water part. But anyway, after sacrificing my personal space (and a great deal of my sanity) in order to afford London for the first year and a half that I lived here, moving back into a place of my own has been a dream come true. I found the perfect little studio/one-bedroom in one of my favourite neighbourhoods, and am currently in the process of making it into The Cutest Flat Anyone Has Ever Seen.

I am also in the process of doing all the boring, tedious things associated with moving house, like waiting around all day for a furniture delivery (it never arrived), and registering with my local GP. The latter I did this morning, and in the process discovered a whole new area of London that I am obsessed with. As I walked up the street perpindicular to my flat, I could feel the atmosphere around me getting incrementally more posh with each step, until I started seeing houses that weren't attached to each other, which in my London mind is pretty much equivalent to the height of luxury. Then, I started seeing chandeliers through the windows of front rooms and I heard a small voice in my head whisper "You belong here." As if that weren't enough, halfway up the road I ran into a woman walking her beagle-- BEAGLE-- and I had my Revelation of the Day: I was going to be a golddigger. It really seems to be the way forward in these uncertain economic times, and besides, I like older men. Unfortunately, about a block later I discovered a fly in the ointment: I may be too picky to be a golddigger. There was a gentleman walking on the other side of the street and I thought, "Aha! My first prey!" ...Until I came up alongside him and realised that his look just didn't really do it for me-- his hat was just a bit too red and didn't really go with his three-piece suit. So for now, I guess I'll just ensconce myself in my little one-bedroomed Moroccan-themed nuclear bunker (did I mention I live in a basement flat?) on the edge of Poshville and wait for someone wearing a three-piece suit sans red hat to come along.

Apartment-hunting... oops i mean *flat*-hunting...

Flat-hunting in London is a form of art. It involves timing, street-smarts, and fooling complete strangers into thinking you're normal just long enough that they agree to let you a room, at which point you can begin to show your true colors (though I recommend waiting to do this until all your things have been moved in-- it makes it much more difficult for them to surreptitiously remove you if they've got to lift your 80-pound suitcase).

But first things first-- before even meeting your potential future flatmates, you've got to become expert at spotting dodgy ads. Craigslist and Gumtree will tell you not to make any transactions involving Western Union lest your money end up funding gun-runners in Outer Mongolia and the like, but I will tell you it's much more complicated than that. You've got to learn to spot the Socially Awkward lot, the Just Want Some Contact with Girls lot, the Forget to Wash a Dish and We'll Evict You lot, and any and all lots that could be fronts for prostitution rings. Not to mention learning how to spot key words that are dead giveaways to a crap living situation. For example: "Roomshare" means you will likely be sharing a room-- nay, a bed-- with anywhere from one to three persons of assorted gender, any and all of whom may at some point try to get in your pants. "Cozy" means you will likely be inhabiting a space roughly the size of a postage stamp. "Central" can mean anywhere from a five to sixty-five minute commute to the center of the city where you wish to live/work/etc. And I will tell you this for free, anyplace in London that unconditionally offers you 'pet-friendly' accomodations will likely take your money, run, then come back for your shoes, socks, and trousers, and run again.

Thankfully I managed to learn most of these things without actually ever having to share a bed with three assorted people or getting my shoes taken (Mama didn't raise no fool)... Though I shouldn't speak too soon-- I have yet to actually secure a room in a flat, and am currently waiting for a call from someone whose flat I viewed yesterday and would very much like to occupy. It feels a bit like being that desperate girl who sits by her phone all day hoping her mediocre date from last night will call... not that I would know ;).