With one of the birds flying the nest as I type, the other one and I were forced to set about the onerous task of finding a new flat mate last weekend. A tedious process, it involves placing an advertisement in London s small ads paper, Loot and setting aside a large chunk of your quality leisure time to show a succession of complete strangers around the house before inviting the least peculiar individual to come and live in it. As a concept, it seems reasonably foolproof until you consider that out of approximately 30 hopefuls, your humble correspondent was once that individual. Scary.
Our ad appeared on a Friday morning and by close of business that day we d had about two dozen replies. It was left to our answering machine to deal with the initial barrage of interest, all the better to enable us to whittle the list down to a more manageable number by immediately disregarding anyone with a speech impediment, an inability to speak coherent English or a Ciline Dion album playing in the background. Such blatant discrimination is probably unfair, but you can tell a lot about a person by the way they speak. For example, you can usually tell where they re from, and I was damned if I was going to live with some silver-tongued smoothie who sounded more urbane, witty or sophisticated than me. Especially not a scouser.
Having invited 10 contenders around to view the house, my remaining flat mate Madeline and I embarked on a frenzied bout of cleaning which began at the same time as that entertaining Saturday morning children s show featuring Ant, Dec and Cat Deeley, and finished just in time for our first audition , which coincided with the beginning of Football Focus. (Like I said, quality leisure time.) With both of us having been through the process before, we knew what was involved: we d show them around, explaining the boring stuff about rent, bills and council tax, before having tea and a bit of a chat with them. With any luck, at least one of them would stand out as being the perfect candidate, only for me to do my usual trick of pointing out some imaginary flaw and start campaigning vociferously for the one I d most like to have sex with.
She arrived second. A vision from Southampton, I knew that she was the one as soon as I clapped eyes on her. Tall, slim, blonde and curvy with meticulously plucked eyebrows, unblemished skin of alabaster, cherry-red lips and heaving bosoms, she was considerate enough to bring along her best friend, who was almost but not quite as fetching. I showed them the sights, reducing both of them to helpless giggles with my carefully honed patter: And this is the bathroom Tee hee! While it was immediately apparent that neither of them were going to win any Sharpest Knife In The Drawer competitions, I wasn t about to be so fickle as to hold something that trivial against them. We sat around the kitchen table drinking tea, with Madeline asking the hard questions while I sat in a slack-jawed stupor making plans. Big plans. Some night in the future we d go to the pub, have too much too drink, talk would inevitably turn to Cosmopolitan s or Marie Claire s latest sex survey yada, yada, yada threesome. I showed them out, enquiring if they were interested (in the house, obviously I m not that good.). They were. I bid them adieu with a knowing wink. Later, girls.
Well, she was a bit fucking wet! announced Madeline when I got back to the kitchen.
Nah, I think she was just nervous, I countered, desperately trying to conceal my panic. It must have been quite intimidating sitting here being judged by us.
Yeah well, she s just split up with her boyfriend, so there d be too much emotional baggage, mused Madeline.
Exactly! I declared, immediately realising I d declared it just a bit too triumphantly. Eh, she s vulnerable and alone and in need of comfort and
and a good shag, eh Barry?
Damn snared.
Several dullards later around Premiership kick-off time we eschewed the tea option in favour of fine wine, in order to alleviate the dreariness. I think it was the uptight, po-faced witch who upon spying the packet of cigarettes, the lighter and the ashtray on the table, not to mention the cigarette in my hand enquired if it was a smoking house , that tipped us over the edge. When we confirmed that yes, it was, she had the temerity to ask if we d be prepared to give up should she move in. No we bloody well wouldn t! declared Madeline heroically, despite the fact that she hasn t had a fag in over three months.
All afternoon, they came: the bold, the beautiful, the young, the restless and the pigstick nutty: a dancer (yeah, you d think but strangely no.), an estate agent, several IT consultants and a carpenter who thought everything was brilliant . So brilliant, in fact, that she felt moved to simulate raucous crowd FX in order to convey her approval of absolutely everything we said, did or showed her.
Us: And here s where our nest of mutant, three-headed, flesh-eating rats live.
Her: Really? Brilliant . . . waheyyyyyyyyyyyy!
Of course we ll ring you one way or the other, Madeline simpered sympathetically to each loon in turn. After all, it s no fun looking for a flat, so it s wouldn t really be fair of us to keep your hopes up.
One girl, a travel agent from Nottingham, demurred : Actually, don t bother, she said. If I ve got it, ring me. If I haven t, there s no point in calling to tell me that it s not me it s you that you d love to share your home with me but you just don t consider yourselves worthy because you like me too much and you think you d be holding me back. I hate all that crap it s like being dumped by someone.
We rang her an hour later. She moves in next Sunday.