The Great Estate (Agent)

Blogging is supposed to be therapeutic. I can see why such a large number of people do it – it’s a chance to sit down and quietly assess what’s going on in your life, appreciate what you have, and realise that the things that bother us, really aren’t as big a deal as we might think.

Or at least, that’s what I’d be telling you if this was the end of an episode of Scrubs.
Instead, blogging for me has become a chance to take stock of ‘what-the-hell-I-did-this-week’. This past week has seen me exploring the dark recesses of London town, after a run-in with a crazed landlady resulted in losing both a holding deposit, and a flat.

Requisite catch-up – my current theory I’m running with is, if one is capable of getting a flat in London, perhaps one can get a job!

*tumbleweed*

Whatever. The point is it feels like progress to me. Not in a monetary sense, of course - once London was finished kicking my purse to the curb, it then tore it to shreds and burnt the contents – but in a lifestyle sense, it feels like the right thing to do. It’s a step forward, a big change, and as I’m constantly reminded, there’s no point remaining in Scotland while all the jobs are Down South. So I’m taking a gamble, and setting myself up with a place to live, before I then knock on each and every door in the animation business in quick succession. Twice.

Of course, when/if this fails, I shall cry myself to sleep and get a job in Pret. This shall then count as Not Failing – I like Pret. They sell porridge.

So how was London? London was big, awesome, scary, brilliant and loads inbetween, including ridiculously hot (25 degrees) and very busy. My flat-hunting method of choice involved downloading the Tube Map App on the Blackberry and getting off at a stop that I liked the sound of. I’d then walk for hours in one direction before I found another one, going into every single estate agent’s along the way. Not an especially sophisticated plan, I’ll be the first to admit, but it worked - I have acquired a rather splendid little place in ‘Cricklewood’ (which, despite the name, is not actually inhabited by hobbits, elves and Tom Bombadil, but apparently plays host to a burgeoning Turkish community).

The best part of the whole trip however, had to be the very first estate agent’s that we walked into. Upon entering, we were met by what could only be described as stereotype in its purest form. The vision that greeted us was ginger, about 6’2, and wearing a suit so ridiculously cheap that the nylon audibly whizzed and squeaked as he made a bee-line towards the fresh meat, booming out indistinguishable pleasantries in a thick cockney accent. 
Sweating profusely, fake-Rolexed, gold-ringed and shiny-shoed, our charming cowboy estate agent John spent the next hour making fake phone calls to landlords and lying through his teeth to tenants, before taking us on a flat viewing without asking permission from the current inhabitants (who turned out to be asleep in bed, with a baby beside them). He chain-smoked and downed countless cans of Coke the entire time; professed to having a splitting hangover (‘You know, just like in that film, wossit...’The Hangover!’), whilst in between phone calls he would put his feet on the desk and give his shoes a quick spit and polish using the ‘Shine-In-A-Can’ from his desk drawer.
Weirdly enough, we didn’t take any of his properties. Still. God bless you, random cowboy estate agent man. Without you the world would be a duller place.