must be neat

You don’t have to be sleeping on the streets to feel homeless. I am not without shelter; but I am without a home. The entirety of my worldly belongings is lying in a pile next to my bunk bed; clothes that expanded as soon as I released them from the zip and now don’t seem to fit back into my miserable looking backpack.

Last night, whilst trying to find my toothbrush in the dark and not disturb the sighing American or the blonde Swedish couple who had crept into a single bed together, I leant forwards to pick something up off the floor and brought my head into contact with the heavy wooden beam that the ladder of the top bunk leans against. After a third consecutive day of allowing the smooth peanut butter I had on my white toast to stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth to avoid making conversation over the sound of the TV in the communal room, I nursed the bump on my head and decided (again) that something has to change.

After a kind friend put the word out that I was in need of somewhere to live I found myself in touch with some else in a similar situation. A little older than me, back here from a year away, looking for a flatmate and a flat. We rapidly exchanged little details about ourselves via text message. ‘I’m pretty easy’ (not to be confused with ‘I am pretty, easy’). I made the follow deductions: been away for a year – likes to travel; in Israel – Jewish; vegetarian – health conscious; Pilates teacher – gay. None of these things are things that would ever put me off a person (unless they tried to stop me from buying chicken), and the combination of all of them I thought could make for an interesting flat. I had little visions of us nibbling carrots and doing pelvic curls in a sunny kitchen near the center of town.

We met for a coffee the following morning. And now the visions became a little blurred… He arrived with an older lady (either an aunt or a chaperone – I forget which) and seemed to find it hard to make eye contact. The aunt-like chaperone was dressed from head to toe in varying shades of pink and did most of the talking. I felt a bit like I was being interviewed for an arranged marriage, and that maybe I would rather live the ballsy old lady than her shy charge. And then a worrying lack of potential 2 bedroom flats within our (my) price range is also lessening the likelihood of this happy union.

I am keeping my options open.

I hate gumtree. I’ve spent so many hours wasting sunshine in front of my computer, which loads each screen at a painful pace. And of all my enquiries only one has even reached a viewing stage. Quite a charming flat in the Gardens area, 2 resident black cats and older flatmates. The landlord lives there himself, working from his bedroom on dial-up internet, and has a washing machine only he can use.

Tempting, but not perfect.

Or I look for accommodation with students; risk feeling old.

Now I lye –staring at what would have been the ceiling had it not been blocked by a top bunk and four ankles attached to giggling Swedes wondering if I should get myself into a bedroom of my own as soon as possible and risk rushing into a compromise, or wait. Wait and hope for something better.