More reasons to be cheerful about leaving London. Last night I had one of those evenings which you tend to write off when you've been in a city for about eighteen years, but when you're just about to leave said city, it becomes more of a carefully presented package of everything that you find irritating about it.
I'd suggested going to a fancy-ish gastropub with a friend - I'd read some great reviews of it (Fay Maschler gave it four stars!), it wasn't far from where I live, and I could walk there from the office. Problem number one was the fact that the street it's on, the South Lambeth Road, is very long. And I'd started off at the wrong end of it. If I'd gone to Stockwell tube, then it was literally five minutes' walk round the corner. From Pimlico, however, it took me about forty minutes - which, in high heat and high wedges, wasn't ideal. I arrived feeling frazzled. 'Still', I thought, 'lovely food awaits me, hurrah!'
The menu, however, was shorter than Ronnie Corbett when he's sitting down. There was nothing I particularly wanted to eat. This is so disappointing when you've revved yourself up into a froth of culinary anticipation all day. One of the specials for a starter was 'radishes with butter'. Radishes with butter? How the hell is that a dish? I hate radishes anyway. The other specials were a chicken for two (with chips - does that come in a basket?) and some lamb thing that required at least five people to eat it. In the meantime, we were brought two very small pieces of slightly dry white bread, and a miniscule amount of butter. I was also on tap water, as I'd ruined myself at a leaving party on Saturday night and booze was no longer my friend.
I gazed at the menu. It was going to have to be two starters and a pudding. I chose some chilled pea and mint soup and smoked salmon with cucumber and horseradish. The soup arrived in a shot glass, with a teaspoon. I was being charged £3.60 for something that surely can't have cost any more than 20p to make. And we had to ask for more bread (this time, two pieces of brown - better, but still: bring us more bloody bread!) I think it's the '60' on that price that really wound me up - £3.50 is an unreasonable price for a shot glass of chilled soup, but the extra 10p seems to be totally thumbing its nose at you. 'Yes, we'll charge you a really stupidly inflated price', it seemed to be saying. The smoked salmon was fine, if what you want is a plate of smoked salmon, with some tiddly bits of cucumber and some horseradish cream. They could've bothered to make it look nice, or provided some, you know, bread with it or something, though. All the reviews had raved about such exotic treats as foie gras toasties (surely the ideal foodstuff for my limbo-land week between South and North; poncey Southern crap expertly melded with the down to earth fayre that I'm expecting north of the border?) But no, I ended up with three mouthfuls of cold soup, some smoked salmon and bread, and a scoop of pretty ordinary ice cream. Also served in a small glass. Had they got chronically over-excited in the glassware section of IKEA or something?
I'm not exactly a stranger to London pricing after all this time, or to being overcharged for mediocre food (I did, after all, go to boarding school, where the food is resolutely horrible, despite the thousands that your parents are paying in order for you to attend). But such high prices for what's essentially a not-particularly-gussied-up-gastro in Stockwell? On a really horrible main road? That I do object to.
And then the women's loos were horrible as well. Why on earth do gastropubs serve pseudo-upmarket, fancypants food, and then not bother to do up the loos? It's a real disgrace. I read somewhere the other day that if the lighting in the women's loos in restaurants is flattering, then the women will stay for dessert. And if it's not, then they insist on leaving. Which I can well believe. So they're not only being lazy by not doing up the loos, they're also losing a lot of money and custom every year. I'm sure I'm not alone in favouring returning to restaurants, bars and gastropubs where the loos are nice.
All in all, I felt pretty cheated. And then I spent twenty minutes waiting for a bus to get home, because the driver was changing shift, and the stop where he was supposed to meet his replacement was closed, so he went wandering off to look for the next driver. I finally got on, only to be chucked off again ten minutes later at Brixton. 'Would you all like to get on the bus behind this one?' the driver asked. Not really, thanks, I've just waited twenty minutes to get on this one. I did as I was told, and spotted lots of seats on the back row. 'Seats!' I thought, 'at least I've got a seat.' (Shot) glass half full attitude, there. I sat down and promptly burned the back of my legs on the metal part under the seat, which had got searingly hot. Bloody, bloody London! Even the buses are out to get you.
Still, on the plus side, I'm now loving the idea of Edinburgh even more, as my new boss wasn't going to be there when I start next week, which she thought would be weird for me, so I've now got three days off, which I'm being paid for! Result.
Tuesday 29 June 2010
I would walk 500 miles
So last time, I thought that London perhaps didn't want to let me go (the mice, the locking myself in my flat, the lack of offers from potential tenants, the raft of friends shouting, 'DON'T GO!' at me). All this has now changed (apart from the friends shouting, 'DON'T GO!' at me. It's a bit tricky, that, having accepted the job, signed on for not-one-but-two flats and given the keys to my flat to the estate agents). But don't think I don't appreciate it, because I really do.
Yes, it's true, I've rented out the flat, which, despite the fact that my estate agent assured me would be the outcome of employing them, still feels like somewhat of a miracle. Four days had passed. They'd had twelve viewings (twelve!) and yet no-one wanted my flat, despite the fact it was in possession of a 'resplendent' sitting room. The shock of seeing my flat in the front window of KFH as I went home one evening was only eclipsed by their description of my sitting room as 'resplendent'. If only I'd known! I'd have spent my time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, rather than eating pasta and pesto and feeling pretty ordinary. It's a wonder what a velvet sofa and a light fitting from John Lewis with a vaguely chandelier-y feel can do for a room's prospects.
The estate agent was clearly panicking. I was thinking, 'Bloody hell, mate, it's only been four days - plus I've got two more weeks before I move and I haven't started packing yet - give it a chance'. He was making noises about dropping the price. Gah, if only I'd had that kitchen floor put down two years ago, like I was supposed to, instead of two weeks before I was due to leave! But then, I received The Call from one of the estate agent's colleagues. 'I'veGotATenantForYouAndThey'llPayTheFullPriceButTheyHaveToMoveInThisWeekend', she garbled. 'Huh?' 'There's a couple who really want your flat. They're desperate [ah, so they don't adore my resplendent sitting room and want to have a wonderful time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, they just really, really need to move. That's a bit disappointing, frankly]. They'll pay the full asking price. But they need to move in this weekend, not next weekend. Can you do that?'
Hmm. Well, let's see. My plan had been: throw as much crap into boxes as possible and shove it into the boot of my parents' car this Friday. Then spend bits of the weekend and next week finishing off (although probably, let's face it, next Friday. With a corking hangover from a leaving party and a matter of hours before my train to Edinburgh was due to leave). On the plus side, I'd be getting a week's extra rent. On the minus side, I now had to find another place to stay, and would have to really kick the kitchen floor man's butt, get carpet cleaners booked in, and, um, pack everything. A quick phone call to my friend Vicky who lives literally across the road from me, and who has a spare room, ascertained that yes, she could put me up. Mission Impossible was about to be launched.
'Yes', I said to the estate agent, 'I can do it. Let's do it!' Her relief was audible (actually, she was probably just thinking, 'YES! A week's extra commission! I am KFH's Employee of the Week!') This will be fine, I thought. Fine! I only have to fill in a billionty forms (half of them asking things like, 'What's the make and model of your hoover?' 'What about your hob?' 'And the oven?' 'Fridge?' 'Dishwasher?' 'Iron?' I'm lying about the last one, but I've never met such a bunch of Label Mabels, honestly). Then call Allied Carpets three times ('ARE YOU COMING ON SATURDAY MORNING OR NOT? YOU'LL BE BRINGING HARDBOARD AND LINO WITH YOU, LIKE I'VE PAID YOU FOR, YES?'). Then find a carpet cleaning company. Then get someone to paint the bathroom, put up a smoke alarm and paint the back wall of my sitting room (thank God for my endlessly patient cousin). Then pack! Like I said, fine - after all, it's a one bedroom flat and I'm letting it furnished, how hard can that be?
I spent all of Friday and ¾ of Saturday trying desperately to put all my possessions into boxes, bags, and the backs of cars. By the time my parents arrived on Friday afternoon, I'd already had a trip to the second hand book shop and two trips to the second hand shop (on top of, I think, two previous trips to the book shop and at least four trips to the second hand shop). This time I took what must have amounted to thousands of pounds' worth of CDs. In common with the hundreds of photos I threw out, because I couldn't bear to haul around pictures of people I'm no longer in touch with, dating back to 1994 (not to mention the collection of photos of me with massive blonde permed hair and an alarming selection of violently-patterned MC Hammer trousers), the CDs had to go. I decided that if, in the future, I actually missed owning such varied delights as Sting's greatest hits and some mid-period Jah Wobble, then I could probably download them from iTunes.
I know they say it's one of the top five stressful things to do, but it bears repeating: I absolutely hate moving. I always think, ‘oh, I don’t really have that much stuff’ and I honestly felt I'd made a huge effort on the recycling/second hand shop front (something I hadn’t managed to do last time I moved), but it was a ruddy nightmare. Thank God my parents managed to get loads of stuff in the boot of their car; then my friend Claire managed to get most of the rest of it in the back of her car; she’s got a miraculously huge basement area, so it’s all shoved into a corner of that (for me to totally forget about).
All that remains is to re-pack all the stuff that I’m taking up to Edinburgh, as of course by the end of the packing process on Saturday, I’d despaired and was throwing things randomly into orange recycling bags, as the industrial-strength black bin liners I’d bought had mysteriously vanished. I was also dealing with a kitchen floor-fitter who was the most narky, miserable man I’ve ever had to deal with (he looked at the kitchen and went, ‘It’s very narrow, isn’t it?’ I said, ‘Yes, it’s a galley kitchen, they tend to be like that’ – also, someone from Allied had actually been round to measure it, so I didn’t know why it was such a surprise. Plus, London kitchens are generally pretty small, it can’t be the smallest one you’ve seen. And it’s not my fault you fit floors for a living, mate.) The carpet cleaning man, who was Polish and very nice, clearly thought I was insane, as he arrived at about 9.30am, by which stage I’d cleared the sitting room, but the bedroom still looked like a bombsite. I assured him it’d be fine and continued manically throwing things around. Thank God Vicky came over to help, as I was also panic-cleaning, as I hadn’t had time to book in a proper cleaner, and also couldn’t afford it. We just squeaked it by the time the woman came round to do the inventory at 3.45pm. I think the tenants were due to start moving in an hour later.
So, the answer to the FAQ's is now as follows:
1/ Hurrah, I’ve sorted not one but two flats in Edinburgh
2/ AND I’ve rented out my flat! Yay
3/ Relocating is massively expensive when you have to rent out a flat through an agent. If I offer you a job in the future, then bear that in mind
4/ Yes, I’m bricking it about the new job, and not knowing anyone in Edinburgh
5/ Please don’t ask me if I’m going to miss everyone – I’ll just start crying again. I’m a total mess – even England being woeful at football nearly set me off, despite the fact I loathe football, footballers, craggy-faced idiot-hole Fabio Capello and those vuvu-wotsits that someone was blowing most of yesterday evening in the house next door
6/ If by ‘are you all packed?’ you mean, ‘does your flat looked the tidiest it’s looked in the entirety of you being there, because all the stuff was moved out of it, the carpets were steam cleaned, the kitchen floor finally got installed and you actually cleaned the oven?’ The answer is a really big ‘yes’
Yes, it's true, I've rented out the flat, which, despite the fact that my estate agent assured me would be the outcome of employing them, still feels like somewhat of a miracle. Four days had passed. They'd had twelve viewings (twelve!) and yet no-one wanted my flat, despite the fact it was in possession of a 'resplendent' sitting room. The shock of seeing my flat in the front window of KFH as I went home one evening was only eclipsed by their description of my sitting room as 'resplendent'. If only I'd known! I'd have spent my time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, rather than eating pasta and pesto and feeling pretty ordinary. It's a wonder what a velvet sofa and a light fitting from John Lewis with a vaguely chandelier-y feel can do for a room's prospects.
The estate agent was clearly panicking. I was thinking, 'Bloody hell, mate, it's only been four days - plus I've got two more weeks before I move and I haven't started packing yet - give it a chance'. He was making noises about dropping the price. Gah, if only I'd had that kitchen floor put down two years ago, like I was supposed to, instead of two weeks before I was due to leave! But then, I received The Call from one of the estate agent's colleagues. 'I'veGotATenantForYouAndThey'llPayTheFullPriceButTheyHaveToMoveInThisWeekend', she garbled. 'Huh?' 'There's a couple who really want your flat. They're desperate [ah, so they don't adore my resplendent sitting room and want to have a wonderful time eating caviar and feeling like Marie Antoinette, they just really, really need to move. That's a bit disappointing, frankly]. They'll pay the full asking price. But they need to move in this weekend, not next weekend. Can you do that?'
Hmm. Well, let's see. My plan had been: throw as much crap into boxes as possible and shove it into the boot of my parents' car this Friday. Then spend bits of the weekend and next week finishing off (although probably, let's face it, next Friday. With a corking hangover from a leaving party and a matter of hours before my train to Edinburgh was due to leave). On the plus side, I'd be getting a week's extra rent. On the minus side, I now had to find another place to stay, and would have to really kick the kitchen floor man's butt, get carpet cleaners booked in, and, um, pack everything. A quick phone call to my friend Vicky who lives literally across the road from me, and who has a spare room, ascertained that yes, she could put me up. Mission Impossible was about to be launched.
'Yes', I said to the estate agent, 'I can do it. Let's do it!' Her relief was audible (actually, she was probably just thinking, 'YES! A week's extra commission! I am KFH's Employee of the Week!') This will be fine, I thought. Fine! I only have to fill in a billionty forms (half of them asking things like, 'What's the make and model of your hoover?' 'What about your hob?' 'And the oven?' 'Fridge?' 'Dishwasher?' 'Iron?' I'm lying about the last one, but I've never met such a bunch of Label Mabels, honestly). Then call Allied Carpets three times ('ARE YOU COMING ON SATURDAY MORNING OR NOT? YOU'LL BE BRINGING HARDBOARD AND LINO WITH YOU, LIKE I'VE PAID YOU FOR, YES?'). Then find a carpet cleaning company. Then get someone to paint the bathroom, put up a smoke alarm and paint the back wall of my sitting room (thank God for my endlessly patient cousin). Then pack! Like I said, fine - after all, it's a one bedroom flat and I'm letting it furnished, how hard can that be?
I spent all of Friday and ¾ of Saturday trying desperately to put all my possessions into boxes, bags, and the backs of cars. By the time my parents arrived on Friday afternoon, I'd already had a trip to the second hand book shop and two trips to the second hand shop (on top of, I think, two previous trips to the book shop and at least four trips to the second hand shop). This time I took what must have amounted to thousands of pounds' worth of CDs. In common with the hundreds of photos I threw out, because I couldn't bear to haul around pictures of people I'm no longer in touch with, dating back to 1994 (not to mention the collection of photos of me with massive blonde permed hair and an alarming selection of violently-patterned MC Hammer trousers), the CDs had to go. I decided that if, in the future, I actually missed owning such varied delights as Sting's greatest hits and some mid-period Jah Wobble, then I could probably download them from iTunes.
I know they say it's one of the top five stressful things to do, but it bears repeating: I absolutely hate moving. I always think, ‘oh, I don’t really have that much stuff’ and I honestly felt I'd made a huge effort on the recycling/second hand shop front (something I hadn’t managed to do last time I moved), but it was a ruddy nightmare. Thank God my parents managed to get loads of stuff in the boot of their car; then my friend Claire managed to get most of the rest of it in the back of her car; she’s got a miraculously huge basement area, so it’s all shoved into a corner of that (for me to totally forget about).
All that remains is to re-pack all the stuff that I’m taking up to Edinburgh, as of course by the end of the packing process on Saturday, I’d despaired and was throwing things randomly into orange recycling bags, as the industrial-strength black bin liners I’d bought had mysteriously vanished. I was also dealing with a kitchen floor-fitter who was the most narky, miserable man I’ve ever had to deal with (he looked at the kitchen and went, ‘It’s very narrow, isn’t it?’ I said, ‘Yes, it’s a galley kitchen, they tend to be like that’ – also, someone from Allied had actually been round to measure it, so I didn’t know why it was such a surprise. Plus, London kitchens are generally pretty small, it can’t be the smallest one you’ve seen. And it’s not my fault you fit floors for a living, mate.) The carpet cleaning man, who was Polish and very nice, clearly thought I was insane, as he arrived at about 9.30am, by which stage I’d cleared the sitting room, but the bedroom still looked like a bombsite. I assured him it’d be fine and continued manically throwing things around. Thank God Vicky came over to help, as I was also panic-cleaning, as I hadn’t had time to book in a proper cleaner, and also couldn’t afford it. We just squeaked it by the time the woman came round to do the inventory at 3.45pm. I think the tenants were due to start moving in an hour later.
So, the answer to the FAQ's is now as follows:
1/ Hurrah, I’ve sorted not one but two flats in Edinburgh
2/ AND I’ve rented out my flat! Yay
3/ Relocating is massively expensive when you have to rent out a flat through an agent. If I offer you a job in the future, then bear that in mind
4/ Yes, I’m bricking it about the new job, and not knowing anyone in Edinburgh
5/ Please don’t ask me if I’m going to miss everyone – I’ll just start crying again. I’m a total mess – even England being woeful at football nearly set me off, despite the fact I loathe football, footballers, craggy-faced idiot-hole Fabio Capello and those vuvu-wotsits that someone was blowing most of yesterday evening in the house next door
6/ If by ‘are you all packed?’ you mean, ‘does your flat looked the tidiest it’s looked in the entirety of you being there, because all the stuff was moved out of it, the carpets were steam cleaned, the kitchen floor finally got installed and you actually cleaned the oven?’ The answer is a really big ‘yes’
Wednesday 16 June 2010
To do, or not to do, that is the question
So, yes, I've been a very negligent blogger of late. Apologies to anyone who reads this who has assumed that I've a/ moved to Scotland and decided to leave all of my previous life behind me or b/ collapsed under the weight of 3.5 years' worth of newspapers, magazines, unnecessary homewares and the like whilst trying to ready myself for The Big Move. When I gaily chucked in my notice at work, I thought it'd mean I'd have 3 months of languidly tapping out essay-length missives about all and sundry. You'd be bored to sobs with my daily witterings on the things I was going to miss about London, and my musings on the many years that I'd been a resident of the Big Smoke. How was I going to cope without Selfridges, without Liberty and without the Tube, etc? What joys awaited me in the 'burgh (as no-one calls it)? Would having to read *shock* real books mean that I could no longer indulge in the downmarket delights of Heat and Grazia?
But as usual, my vision of how life is going to be, and how life actually is was massively out of whack. Yeah, sure, within 4 days of me handing in my notice, my boss had asked me for a list of all the meetings I chaired/went to/was due to attend. And then booted me off them all. Which felt a tad harsh, but then who actually wants to spend their time in meetings? I suffer from meeting narcolepsy - 5 minutes after sitting down with an agenda in front of me, I practically black out with boredom. So having at least 3 hours freed up every day has meant that I can stare blankly at my 'to do' list for even longer.
When I rashly decided to move to Edinburgh, my 'to do' list ran:
1/ Find place to rent in Edinburgh
2/ Rent out flat in London
3/ Send email to friends and family to see if they can facilitate either of first 2 points
Totally achievable! Loads of time! Kick back for the entirety of May! Plan a holiday! Practise Olympic-level procrastination!
It started off well: I found a huge flat within my price range to rent. I went to Edinburgh (sporting a cracking black eye as I'd come a total cropper on a paving stone the night before. My sister supportively told me I looked like 'a battered wife'. What the estate agent must've thought, I've no idea. Probably 'double check the crockery inventory when she moves out - she looks a bit of a bruiser') and it was the first one I saw. It's so massive that the walk-in wardrobe (!) currently houses a piano (!!). I know! My whole flat could fit into that cupboard. A minor problem - the incumbents weren't moving out till the middle of September. So now I had to look for 2 flats - which of course is great when the period you need a short-term let coincides with the Edinburgh Festival. When even the estate agent said that he sofa surfs and rents his flat out for a vast amount of cash.
Luckily, the family/friends pleading netted a result on that front. So, just my flat to sort out, then. After a lecture from my dad on, essentially, not being a numpty and handing the whole thing over to an estate agent in order to avoid having to sort out a plumber at short notice from the opposite end of the country when something inevitably springs a leak a week after I've left, I finally bit the bullet and went into the estate agent's at the bottom of my road. He turned up on Monday to value it. He made lots of positive noises, and kindly overlooked the fact that I still don't have a proper kitchen floor or proper bedroom curtains and the bathroom still needs painting. He gave me an enormous folder full of forms to fill in. He said loads of people were looking, they'd have no bother renting it out and when could I get the keys over to him. He was very nice and he had very long eyelashes and very shiny shoes. I nearly hugged him.
I now, however, have a 'to do' list that's quadruple the length of any list I've had in my entire life. It includes such varied tasks as:
1/ Book in for an 'EPC' assessment. An energy report that no client my estate agent has ever had has ever thought/wanted to ask to see. This will cost me £50.
2/ Fill in forms for my mortgage company which will grant me their 'permission to let' my flat. This will not change the terms of the mortgage in any way, shape or form. For this privilege, I have to pay them £225. It's no wonder people hate banks.
3/ Get some sort of gas certificate, certifying nothing is going to blow up.
4/ Ditto on the electric front (this of course has to be done by different people).
5/ Work out whether to have my flat professionally cleaned. God knows what that will cost.
6/ Dash into work then straight back home again in order to have keys cut because there are already people wanting to view the flat. Yes, at midday today. Ooops.
7/ Try not to create an enormous festival of paper strewn all over the floor every time I endeavour to pack anything - because strangers will come round and see it.
8/ Repeatedly call the kitchen floor people and check that they have ordered the lino and might come round to fit it before I leave the country. (Doubtful).
9/ Worry about painting the bathroom.
10/ Call the plumber and beg him to sort out the bathroom, the gas certificate, the boiler and anything else he can think to charge me for.
11/ Call my parents and beg for money.
12/ Wonder if I'm going to be able to work out how to put up the curtains that a friend has given me. Resign myself to asking friends who're coming over for lunch on Sunday to help on that front, rather than bring a bottle of wine.
13/ Call gas/electricity/TV license/water/Council Tax/gym to cancel everything. Inevitably write date in diary a week before I'm due to leave when I have to call them back to confirm that yes, I really am going and could they please actually close the account.
14/ Panic about how many boxes will fit into my parents' car.
15/ Try to rehome/throw away/recycle more of my possessions.
16/ Panic about not knowing anyone in Edinburgh.
17/ Call the handyman who came round on the 25th May to give me a quote, who still hasn't given me a sodding quote.
18/ Strike off most of jobs for handyman. My tenants will have to make do with the slightly horrid doorknobs I've put up with since I moved in, I've decided.
19/ Worry about whether the mice who moved in whilst I was on holiday will have 'left the building' by the time the tenants move in.
20/ Shout, 'Fuck off, you fucking little fuckers!' at the mice as they whisk by, apparently untroubled by me, and the poison I have put down. (My friend Richard's advice was to buy a cage from the pet shop, kit it out and then leave the door open - so it just looks like your pets are having a run around. Aww, pet mice! Sweet! It's starting to look like a good idea.)
21/ Regret the fact that the sight of a mouse running along the top of the radiator caused me to let go of my door in shock when I came in, causing the latch to get jammed. Which resulted in me having to shove the door shut, and then not being able to get it open again. Which cost me £90 in locksmith's fees.
22/ Wonder if, in fact, my flat doesn't want to let me go and this is its way of telling me.
23/ Redirect mail - another £17.
24/ Try to re-jig contents insurance to reflect my new landlady status.
25/ Try to arrange to see friends/experience all that London has to offer/go round all my favourite haunts. Whilst panicking about not having packed everything.
I think you can agree, it's a challenge for someone who procrastinates quite as badly as I do to work through this list, ticking things off. (So far, I'm doing very well on the panicking side). How on earth do people manage when they emigrate? Or have to move more than a one bedroomed flat? With children? It's truly beyond me.
But as usual, my vision of how life is going to be, and how life actually is was massively out of whack. Yeah, sure, within 4 days of me handing in my notice, my boss had asked me for a list of all the meetings I chaired/went to/was due to attend. And then booted me off them all. Which felt a tad harsh, but then who actually wants to spend their time in meetings? I suffer from meeting narcolepsy - 5 minutes after sitting down with an agenda in front of me, I practically black out with boredom. So having at least 3 hours freed up every day has meant that I can stare blankly at my 'to do' list for even longer.
When I rashly decided to move to Edinburgh, my 'to do' list ran:
1/ Find place to rent in Edinburgh
2/ Rent out flat in London
3/ Send email to friends and family to see if they can facilitate either of first 2 points
Totally achievable! Loads of time! Kick back for the entirety of May! Plan a holiday! Practise Olympic-level procrastination!
It started off well: I found a huge flat within my price range to rent. I went to Edinburgh (sporting a cracking black eye as I'd come a total cropper on a paving stone the night before. My sister supportively told me I looked like 'a battered wife'. What the estate agent must've thought, I've no idea. Probably 'double check the crockery inventory when she moves out - she looks a bit of a bruiser') and it was the first one I saw. It's so massive that the walk-in wardrobe (!) currently houses a piano (!!). I know! My whole flat could fit into that cupboard. A minor problem - the incumbents weren't moving out till the middle of September. So now I had to look for 2 flats - which of course is great when the period you need a short-term let coincides with the Edinburgh Festival. When even the estate agent said that he sofa surfs and rents his flat out for a vast amount of cash.
Luckily, the family/friends pleading netted a result on that front. So, just my flat to sort out, then. After a lecture from my dad on, essentially, not being a numpty and handing the whole thing over to an estate agent in order to avoid having to sort out a plumber at short notice from the opposite end of the country when something inevitably springs a leak a week after I've left, I finally bit the bullet and went into the estate agent's at the bottom of my road. He turned up on Monday to value it. He made lots of positive noises, and kindly overlooked the fact that I still don't have a proper kitchen floor or proper bedroom curtains and the bathroom still needs painting. He gave me an enormous folder full of forms to fill in. He said loads of people were looking, they'd have no bother renting it out and when could I get the keys over to him. He was very nice and he had very long eyelashes and very shiny shoes. I nearly hugged him.
I now, however, have a 'to do' list that's quadruple the length of any list I've had in my entire life. It includes such varied tasks as:
1/ Book in for an 'EPC' assessment. An energy report that no client my estate agent has ever had has ever thought/wanted to ask to see. This will cost me £50.
2/ Fill in forms for my mortgage company which will grant me their 'permission to let' my flat. This will not change the terms of the mortgage in any way, shape or form. For this privilege, I have to pay them £225. It's no wonder people hate banks.
3/ Get some sort of gas certificate, certifying nothing is going to blow up.
4/ Ditto on the electric front (this of course has to be done by different people).
5/ Work out whether to have my flat professionally cleaned. God knows what that will cost.
6/ Dash into work then straight back home again in order to have keys cut because there are already people wanting to view the flat. Yes, at midday today. Ooops.
7/ Try not to create an enormous festival of paper strewn all over the floor every time I endeavour to pack anything - because strangers will come round and see it.
8/ Repeatedly call the kitchen floor people and check that they have ordered the lino and might come round to fit it before I leave the country. (Doubtful).
9/ Worry about painting the bathroom.
10/ Call the plumber and beg him to sort out the bathroom, the gas certificate, the boiler and anything else he can think to charge me for.
11/ Call my parents and beg for money.
12/ Wonder if I'm going to be able to work out how to put up the curtains that a friend has given me. Resign myself to asking friends who're coming over for lunch on Sunday to help on that front, rather than bring a bottle of wine.
13/ Call gas/electricity/TV license/water/Council Tax/gym to cancel everything. Inevitably write date in diary a week before I'm due to leave when I have to call them back to confirm that yes, I really am going and could they please actually close the account.
14/ Panic about how many boxes will fit into my parents' car.
15/ Try to rehome/throw away/recycle more of my possessions.
16/ Panic about not knowing anyone in Edinburgh.
17/ Call the handyman who came round on the 25th May to give me a quote, who still hasn't given me a sodding quote.
18/ Strike off most of jobs for handyman. My tenants will have to make do with the slightly horrid doorknobs I've put up with since I moved in, I've decided.
19/ Worry about whether the mice who moved in whilst I was on holiday will have 'left the building' by the time the tenants move in.
20/ Shout, 'Fuck off, you fucking little fuckers!' at the mice as they whisk by, apparently untroubled by me, and the poison I have put down. (My friend Richard's advice was to buy a cage from the pet shop, kit it out and then leave the door open - so it just looks like your pets are having a run around. Aww, pet mice! Sweet! It's starting to look like a good idea.)
21/ Regret the fact that the sight of a mouse running along the top of the radiator caused me to let go of my door in shock when I came in, causing the latch to get jammed. Which resulted in me having to shove the door shut, and then not being able to get it open again. Which cost me £90 in locksmith's fees.
22/ Wonder if, in fact, my flat doesn't want to let me go and this is its way of telling me.
23/ Redirect mail - another £17.
24/ Try to re-jig contents insurance to reflect my new landlady status.
25/ Try to arrange to see friends/experience all that London has to offer/go round all my favourite haunts. Whilst panicking about not having packed everything.
I think you can agree, it's a challenge for someone who procrastinates quite as badly as I do to work through this list, ticking things off. (So far, I'm doing very well on the panicking side). How on earth do people manage when they emigrate? Or have to move more than a one bedroomed flat? With children? It's truly beyond me.
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