Just a quick note...
There are always these weird commercials (aka "adverts") on the telly. I don't understand them AT ALL.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-bOjU4w9q4
Take a look... let me know your thoughts.
Federman out.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Kaleidoscope
Mood: Compuzzled
Theme Song: "Bingo" - Gucci Mane
Little monsters covered in Union Jack Underoos must be coming into my house at night and nibbling away at my cerebral cortex. That is the only explanation for the fact that I looked in my spice cabinet yesterday and thought to myself, "I need to pick up some or-EH-gan-oh". Not "OR-ray-gan-oh". Somehow my brain has decided that Oregano should be pronounced the English way, as if it were some cool new shape or Pokemon character. What's also disturbing is how easy other English words have seeped into my everyday vocabulary - "lorry", "chav", "blimey", "posh", "brolly", "till", "brilliant", "biscuit", "chips", "queue".
In other news, I finally have a sofa in my flat. This doesn't really seem like breaking news, but when you've been living out of your bedroom for the past two weeks, it is quite possibly one of the most exciting occurrences possible. It is fantastic to have something to sit on, and it makes me feel a bit like my apartment is finally coming together. It's a small place, but it is sunny and bright and mine all mine :) I still have a bunch of furniture left to buy, but there's light at the end of that tunnel and by Christmas time I should be fully set up.
I'm still immensely frustrated by how hard it is to find simple things over here. I really, really miss Wal-Mart, Target, hell even K-Mart. Americans don't realise how easy we have it to be able to go to one store and get 95% of what we're looking for.
I'll give you an example. I need the following things: light bulbs - regular and halogen, door hooks, picture hooks, a cheap bookshelf, those cool 3M hanger things that have the adhesive strip on the back so you don't make a mark on the wall, Scotchguard and a lint brush. Now, in America I would just hop in my car and go to the nearest Wal-Mart, Target or Fred Meyer and voila! Shopping's finished. Here?
Lightbulbs - Sainbury's
Door hooks - still not sure on this one
Picture hooks - still not sure either
Cheap bookshelf - couple of options here (IKEA, Argos, Tesco Direct)
3M Hanger Things - no idea if they even have them over here
Scotchguard - order from amazon.co.uk
Lint Brush - maybe Sainsbury's, maybe Argos
See what I mean? I know things are compounded now because I no longer have a car, but even when I had wheels, I still found myself driving here there and everywhere just to get the simplest things.
Speaking of Argos, the shop is hilarious. Check it out at www.argos.co.uk. There isn't really even a store - just a bunch of a catalogues and tills and conveyer belts. It's all summed up brilliantly here - (watch the bit up to about 1:08) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plAkZlRpqCg
I was thinking to myself the other day when the novelty of taking the train every day will wear off. I think it will probably be right around when I'm stuck on a platform in a snowstorm and the announcer comes on and says in a very posh BBC voice, "We are sorry to announce that 18:54 service to Waterloo, calling at (list of stations) is cancelled due to --"... The reason trains are cancelled here is a bit like a game of Mad Libs. I swear there are people sitting up in Central Train Control and just reaching into a hat for something to say. So far I've noticed its been:
Of course, I've yet to have a train cancelled due to sun delay, which used to happen all the time in Cincinnati. Yes, that's right. The sun...is out... and therefore, traffic is delayed. Despite the fact that the sun comes out every single day, its appearance somehow caused automobile drivers problems. ¬¬
Taking the train is quite the adventure, and it seems all normal rules of human behaviour go right out the window the minute you swipe your Oyster card or insert your ticket at the turnstile. Before I moved, my previous train experiences were limited to taking the train to central London for work or to SE London to visit someone for the weekend. They were fairly long journeys - an hour or two - and there were never very many people on the train. It all seemed very orderly and British and I found the ticket taker man quaint and was always super happy to show him that yes, yessir, I have a valid ticket, I paid the fare, look at me, good on me, can I have a biscuit now. The one weird experience I had was having what was obviously a mentally challenged man sit diagonally across from me on the ride to Blackheath, and for 40 minutes make fellatio gestures at me while periodically offering a 3-toothed smile. (That in itself was really special, considering I was on my way to a first date)
So when I queued up to get on the train for the first time to go to work, it was safe to say that I was a bit unreasonably excited. I felt alive, part of something bigger than myself. I was a TRAIN COMMUTER! I even had the beginning refrains of Manic Monday stuck in my head as I walked up to the turnstile and swiped my rail card. I went up the ramp and stood happily with all the other commuters near the tracks. I gave them all happy little nods, as if to say "Oh yes, I take the train to work everyday, too." The train pulled up to the station, right on time. The doors opened, and I minded the gap and hopped on. Everything was going smashingly until we got to Wimbledon station. For my American friends, it may be helpful for you to check out the following links to better understand what I'm talking about -
I got to the top of the Platform. One of the good things about public transportation in London is that you can just give a googly-eyed look to anyone who works for the train office and say your destination (Me: "Sutton?" Them: "Platform 9"). I've tried this with all kinds of destinations and so far it hasn't failed me. I'm sure there will be one time when I get misdirected to Staines (American friends, click here: http://onthebutton.wordpress.com/2010/11/08/renaming-ali-g-hometown/), but for now this is working well.
Once I got down to the platform for my train to Sutton, the morning quickly went back to normal speed, as I am now commuting against the traffic stream. By the time I got on the train, it was nearly empty and only filled with chattering schoolchildren (complete with Harry Potter outfits and everything).
The real fun came in the evening. A bit of background: most trains in England that I've taken have a digital display listing the stations where it "calls" (aka "stops") as well as a public address system that says things like "This is the 18:54 service to Luton, calling at...." and "The next station is Wimbledon Chase. Mind the gap." To an American like me, this is amazing because it helps me to always know where I am and where I'm going. So I got on the train from Sutton on my first day... and settled back for the 27m ride. About 10min into the trip, I suddenly realised that I hadn't heard any English voice announcing any of the stops... and that the train had no digital display, and that it was pitch black outside, and that I had NO FREAKING IDEA WHERE I WAS. Luckily each station has a big sign with its name on it, so as the train pulled up, I could squint through the window and see where I was. This was when I learned to count stations, and to pay attention on the train ;)
But I'm getting used to it. I have already passed two major milestones, which my English friends assure me are part and parcel for taking public transportation. I've seen my first adult pee puddle (why people pee on the train, I have no idea) and I was unceremoniously groped while riding a packed train to Clapham Junction. (Trains were delayed that night for - pick a reason - and so they were uncharacteristically full. We were wedged in like sardines, and the person (sure hope it was a guy, I couldn't even move to see) behind me took the opportunity to put their hands all over my rear business.)
Earlier I said that people lose all sense of how to behave properly when on the train, and I mean it. We've got people peeing on the floor (how exactly does that work anyway? do you just pee, and then get up and leave?); we've got people trying to get to 3rd base with you without your permission. And then there are the conversations I overhear. I don't know what it is about public transportation that makes people think it's okay to talk about anything at all... but it might be the same force that causes people to think that if they pick their nose in their car no one will see.
Since riding the train I have overheard conversations (both live and on the phone) about:
That's all for today, folks.
Federman out.
Theme Song: "Bingo" - Gucci Mane
Little monsters covered in Union Jack Underoos must be coming into my house at night and nibbling away at my cerebral cortex. That is the only explanation for the fact that I looked in my spice cabinet yesterday and thought to myself, "I need to pick up some or-EH-gan-oh". Not "OR-ray-gan-oh". Somehow my brain has decided that Oregano should be pronounced the English way, as if it were some cool new shape or Pokemon character. What's also disturbing is how easy other English words have seeped into my everyday vocabulary - "lorry", "chav", "blimey", "posh", "brolly", "till", "brilliant", "biscuit", "chips", "queue".
In other news, I finally have a sofa in my flat. This doesn't really seem like breaking news, but when you've been living out of your bedroom for the past two weeks, it is quite possibly one of the most exciting occurrences possible. It is fantastic to have something to sit on, and it makes me feel a bit like my apartment is finally coming together. It's a small place, but it is sunny and bright and mine all mine :) I still have a bunch of furniture left to buy, but there's light at the end of that tunnel and by Christmas time I should be fully set up.
I'm still immensely frustrated by how hard it is to find simple things over here. I really, really miss Wal-Mart, Target, hell even K-Mart. Americans don't realise how easy we have it to be able to go to one store and get 95% of what we're looking for.
I'll give you an example. I need the following things: light bulbs - regular and halogen, door hooks, picture hooks, a cheap bookshelf, those cool 3M hanger things that have the adhesive strip on the back so you don't make a mark on the wall, Scotchguard and a lint brush. Now, in America I would just hop in my car and go to the nearest Wal-Mart, Target or Fred Meyer and voila! Shopping's finished. Here?
Lightbulbs - Sainbury's
Door hooks - still not sure on this one
Picture hooks - still not sure either
Cheap bookshelf - couple of options here (IKEA, Argos, Tesco Direct)
3M Hanger Things - no idea if they even have them over here
Scotchguard - order from amazon.co.uk
Lint Brush - maybe Sainsbury's, maybe Argos
See what I mean? I know things are compounded now because I no longer have a car, but even when I had wheels, I still found myself driving here there and everywhere just to get the simplest things.
Speaking of Argos, the shop is hilarious. Check it out at www.argos.co.uk. There isn't really even a store - just a bunch of a catalogues and tills and conveyer belts. It's all summed up brilliantly here - (watch the bit up to about 1:08) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plAkZlRpqCg
I was thinking to myself the other day when the novelty of taking the train every day will wear off. I think it will probably be right around when I'm stuck on a platform in a snowstorm and the announcer comes on and says in a very posh BBC voice, "We are sorry to announce that 18:54 service to Waterloo, calling at (list of stations) is cancelled due to --"... The reason trains are cancelled here is a bit like a game of Mad Libs. I swear there are people sitting up in Central Train Control and just reaching into a hat for something to say. So far I've noticed its been:
- Signal failure (this is the most popular. I'm not sure how or why these signals keep failing, or why they don't replace them)
- Vandalism (I've actually had a train delayed due to this. I'm not sure how a train could be delayed by someone spray painting or whatnot)
- Mechanical failure
Accidents (these range from someone stepped in front of a train to a lorry fell off a bridge and on top of a train - that one actually happened the other day)
Of course, I've yet to have a train cancelled due to sun delay, which used to happen all the time in Cincinnati. Yes, that's right. The sun...is out... and therefore, traffic is delayed. Despite the fact that the sun comes out every single day, its appearance somehow caused automobile drivers problems. ¬¬
Taking the train is quite the adventure, and it seems all normal rules of human behaviour go right out the window the minute you swipe your Oyster card or insert your ticket at the turnstile. Before I moved, my previous train experiences were limited to taking the train to central London for work or to SE London to visit someone for the weekend. They were fairly long journeys - an hour or two - and there were never very many people on the train. It all seemed very orderly and British and I found the ticket taker man quaint and was always super happy to show him that yes, yessir, I have a valid ticket, I paid the fare, look at me, good on me, can I have a biscuit now. The one weird experience I had was having what was obviously a mentally challenged man sit diagonally across from me on the ride to Blackheath, and for 40 minutes make fellatio gestures at me while periodically offering a 3-toothed smile. (That in itself was really special, considering I was on my way to a first date)
So when I queued up to get on the train for the first time to go to work, it was safe to say that I was a bit unreasonably excited. I felt alive, part of something bigger than myself. I was a TRAIN COMMUTER! I even had the beginning refrains of Manic Monday stuck in my head as I walked up to the turnstile and swiped my rail card. I went up the ramp and stood happily with all the other commuters near the tracks. I gave them all happy little nods, as if to say "Oh yes, I take the train to work everyday, too." The train pulled up to the station, right on time. The doors opened, and I minded the gap and hopped on. Everything was going smashingly until we got to Wimbledon station. For my American friends, it may be helpful for you to check out the following links to better understand what I'm talking about -
- http://www.nationalrail.co.uk/passenger_services/maps/ (maps for the train)
- http://www.tfl.gov.uk/gettingaround/1106.aspx (maps for the tube, bus and other methods of transport)
(which is not insignificant, by the way. In fact "the gap" is closer to a "person-size chasm" and beckons to my clumsiness every day as if to say "oh yes, I know YOU.... you're the one who falls down in your own bathtub, and who knocks over water no matter where you put it, and who runs into walls, and doors, and people... oh yes, I know you. See me? See this lovely dark gap? I'm just waiting for you... for a rainy day, a snowy day, for you to make a bad choice in footwear, for you to be pushed from behind by some corpulent businessman's belly... I'm waiting for you and then I will nomnomnom eat you up and cover you with oily, metally squeaky British train goodness and kill you dead. And then YOU will be the cause of a train delay...")... it is hard to mind the gap when you are being pushed from behind and you are staring into the rabid faces of people who appear to be just dying to get on the train. So I finally made it off the train in one piece only to be swept into a veritable stream of people as I moved up the stairs to change platforms. The stairs are supposed to serve those going up and those going down - but point that out to anyone at your own risk. I spend my mornings getting all kinds of exercise by going up, up, up against harried English people going down, down, down. It's a bit like that time in Krav Maga class when our exercise for the day was to lie on the floor and have everyone pile on top of you and then "fight" your way out.
I got to the top of the Platform. One of the good things about public transportation in London is that you can just give a googly-eyed look to anyone who works for the train office and say your destination (Me: "Sutton?" Them: "Platform 9"). I've tried this with all kinds of destinations and so far it hasn't failed me. I'm sure there will be one time when I get misdirected to Staines (American friends, click here: http://onthebutton.wordpress.com/2010/11/08/renaming-ali-g-hometown/), but for now this is working well.
Once I got down to the platform for my train to Sutton, the morning quickly went back to normal speed, as I am now commuting against the traffic stream. By the time I got on the train, it was nearly empty and only filled with chattering schoolchildren (complete with Harry Potter outfits and everything).
The real fun came in the evening. A bit of background: most trains in England that I've taken have a digital display listing the stations where it "calls" (aka "stops") as well as a public address system that says things like "This is the 18:54 service to Luton, calling at...." and "The next station is Wimbledon Chase. Mind the gap." To an American like me, this is amazing because it helps me to always know where I am and where I'm going. So I got on the train from Sutton on my first day... and settled back for the 27m ride. About 10min into the trip, I suddenly realised that I hadn't heard any English voice announcing any of the stops... and that the train had no digital display, and that it was pitch black outside, and that I had NO FREAKING IDEA WHERE I WAS. Luckily each station has a big sign with its name on it, so as the train pulled up, I could squint through the window and see where I was. This was when I learned to count stations, and to pay attention on the train ;)
But I'm getting used to it. I have already passed two major milestones, which my English friends assure me are part and parcel for taking public transportation. I've seen my first adult pee puddle (why people pee on the train, I have no idea) and I was unceremoniously groped while riding a packed train to Clapham Junction. (Trains were delayed that night for - pick a reason - and so they were uncharacteristically full. We were wedged in like sardines, and the person (sure hope it was a guy, I couldn't even move to see) behind me took the opportunity to put their hands all over my rear business.)
Earlier I said that people lose all sense of how to behave properly when on the train, and I mean it. We've got people peeing on the floor (how exactly does that work anyway? do you just pee, and then get up and leave?); we've got people trying to get to 3rd base with you without your permission. And then there are the conversations I overhear. I don't know what it is about public transportation that makes people think it's okay to talk about anything at all... but it might be the same force that causes people to think that if they pick their nose in their car no one will see.
Since riding the train I have overheard conversations (both live and on the phone) about:
- STDs (a girl was talking in great detail about her "itch")
- Infidelity (man on phone: "well, I guess if you have to sleep with my brother, that's fine, but for god's sake darling please don't take him to our country house"... NOT kidding on that one)
- Theft (a whole conversation between two people about how they were going to go to one of their friend's house and basically rip them off)
- Bodily functions (I've heard treatises on diarrhea, flatulence, excessive mucus production, diaper rash, breast hairs (that was a funny day), etc etc)
That's all for today, folks.
Federman out.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Finding A Flat...
Mood: Happy
Theme Song: "Teach Me How 2 Dougie feat. Marianne Slade*" - Cali Swag District.
I am officially moved into my flat in London.
Please allow me to take a few moments to catch my breath, because there is MUCH to tell. I guess I should start by saying that I am no stranger to moving. We moved at least four times when I was growing up that I can remember, and then I think I've lived in fifteen or so different places since I was 17. So it's safe to say that I have a pretty firm grasp on the mechanics behind moving from one apartment to another.
Except that I don't. Not over here.
So this time around, when I was looking to move to London, I didn't anticipate a huge fiasco. I thought that once I picked a neighborhood it would be fairly simple. Stupid, stupid me... forgetting that I was in England. I'll skip over how I ended up picking my neighborhood (a combination of advice + I looked at a flatshare and really liked it + it is a good location in between work and central London). The fun began once I started talking to estate agents, trying to schedule appointments.
Anyway, I had the gamut of estate agents working with me - the overeager puppy (the guy who had me on the phone so long and who called so many times per day that my work colleagues were like "Is he asking you out?", and "Are you going to be Facebook friends now, like you are with Marianne Slade?"), the perpetually confused ("Who are you again? What are you looking for?" even though I had just spoken to them 5 minutes before) and the completely disinterested (passive air of ennui - funnily enough, the agent who showed me what is now my flat fell into this category). I ended up scheduling a fully day of viewings on a Saturday and luckily had company to view them. Which was a good thing because these chucklehead estate agents kept trying to show me everything from what looked like a recently converted crack den to literally a hole in the wall. (I'm not kidding. We went up some scary Hunchback of Notre Dame steps to a narrow door; upon opening the door, you literally fell into the bedroom. The kitchen was the size of a Port-a-Potty and I think a Party House for Vampires would have more natural light. The craziest part was that the place was only £125 less than the flat I currently have!!) In addition, despite my being very specific about my desired location, Mr. Overeager Puppy insisted on taking me to a marginal neighborhood that was on the outskirts of my chosen area. We had to view several places that reeked of cabbage, failed dreams and felonies before he finally got it through his head that I had standards. And in the end, nearly every place he took me was more than I could afford anyway.
I knew when I saw the flat that is currently mine that I had found the one I wanted. But I looked at all the others to be fair. Not all of them were BAD... they were just shocking to my American eyes. Some were dirty, or just lacking what I consider to be normal amenities. I can handle the lack of space, but I cannot abide the lack of closets or nasty bathrooms. One place had a toilet that looked like it was installed before I was born. And the flat was marketed as "luxury". Even though that to get to the aforementioned "high quality" bathroom facilities, you had to walk through the bedroom. I haven't seen a set up like that since my days in college, or that time I visited Marianne Slade's double wide trailer - and that only occurred because you had 4 people living in what was a 3 bedroom or something, and so the living room became a bedroom. I don't think I've ever seen a place where that layout was deliberate. Not correct actually - now I can say that I have.
The place I ended up choosing isn't perfect by any means. I've had a host of drama since moving in (that will be a subject for another blog entry), it's on the 4th floor with no lift (elevator), there's no parking for guests and it lacks storage space. Former tenants were apparently related to elephants and so the landlord put down these hideous rugs everywhere. Well, okay, they're not HIDEOUS... they're just tan and ugly and somewhat stained. (I'm working on a compromise where I replace the nasties with a nice sunny area rug... we'll see)
On the plus side, it's on the top floor so it gets flooded with natural light. The ceilings are relatively high, the rooms are decent size and the fittings are fairly modern. There is a dishwasher and a newer stove and refrigerator. And the washer/dryer - while it isn't much to look at - actually DRIES most of my clothes. (That nearly put me into shock when I figured it out). I'm less than 10 minutes from the train station, which means Marianne Slade won't have to walk that far to come visit me, and there's a bus station at the end of my street. I can walk to a mini-Boots, a Cooperative food store (a small food chain), several bakeries and restaurants. I can take the train to Wimbledon (4 min) where there is a pretty big shopping centre with Marks & Spencer, Sainsbury's and Tesco - or I can take the train to Kingston (about 12 min away) where there is a HUGE shopping area with nearly everything I could possibly think of.
I realised today when I was coming back from Wimbledon that I haven't walked this much since I was 17... (nearly 17 years ago... YIKES!) and I absolutely love it. I was in the best shape of my life back then (not as buff as Marianne Slade is now, but close...), when I didn't have a car and had to walk everywhere. I hate any kind of enforced exercise (gyms bore me and classes are just an opportunity for me to showcase exactly how uncoordinated I am. The only class I really like is boxing, and it's hard to find one that is affordable and offered when I'm free) - so I'm loving the fact that I can stay in shape simply by doing things I normally do. The four flights of stairs I hit twice a day (at least) + the walk to/from the trian station + steps at the various stations + the flights of steps at work + getting around the neighborhood to do my usual stuff. I'm sure there will come a time when I miss my car (probably when I'm freezing my butt off waiting for a delayed train) - but I'm really enjoying not having to deal with parking or English roads.
*My friend Marianne only reads my blog to see how many times her name is mentioned. I'm making her day.
Theme Song: "Teach Me How 2 Dougie feat. Marianne Slade*" - Cali Swag District.
I am officially moved into my flat in London.
Please allow me to take a few moments to catch my breath, because there is MUCH to tell. I guess I should start by saying that I am no stranger to moving. We moved at least four times when I was growing up that I can remember, and then I think I've lived in fifteen or so different places since I was 17. So it's safe to say that I have a pretty firm grasp on the mechanics behind moving from one apartment to another.
Except that I don't. Not over here.
Some background that may help: any time you want to rent a flat over here, you need to go through an Estate Agent. An exception is the rare place posted on Craigslist or Spareroom.co.uk - but I've found that those places are either pretty dodgy or a flat-share/roommate situation. You know how in the U.S., you just go to the apartment complex... or drive by, note the number in the window, and call up? Not so here. You need to pick a neighborhood and then contact the nine hundred million estate agents which serve that neighborhood. They're called "estate" agents, but they don't deal in Hounds of the Baskervilles type mansions (well some do, but most don't). And they don't deal with rich dead people's stuff, either, as I originally thought. What they do is control most of the available rental market and make your life a living hell. They serve as a go-between between property owners and tenants - when it works, it's brilliant. When it doesn't, it is a recipe for homicidal thoughts - much like the ones that Marianne Slade has when her husband goes out for guy's night.So on to my adventures. I think it is worth explaining that when I moved over in January, I was living in a hotel and so had a finite amount of time to find a place. I basically took a day off work and took a taxi to Canterbury. I had scheduled a few viewings with different estate agents (which was a feat in itself; I had bene trying to schedule viewings since December, but no one would call me back because I wasn't in the UK yet. I kept trying to explain that I wanted to have appointments scheduled so that the first weekend I was in town, I could find a place. This logical reasoning just proved too much for them.). I looked at five places, and chose the best option. The estate agent I dealt with was really professional - had me fill out a bunch of paperwork, called the property owner and got their approval to rent to me, and voila - I had a flat. I encountered sticker shock and all that because I had to pay the estate agent fee (about £250) in addition to deposit and first month's rent - but other than that, the process was relatively simple. The only kink was that I needed a bank account and the bank wanted me to have an apartment to get a bank account - so we had to do a bit of finagling there. Since it was Canterbury where Marianne Slade lives, and the bank manager knew the manager of the estate agency, they were able to help me out. I think if I were in London, I would probably still be trying to get a bank account...
So basically you call these places up and find out what they have available, or you take a day or two and go to all their offices and register. What adds to the fun is that they always have tons of beautiful, amazing looking properties listed on their websites - but when you call, they tell you Oh sorry, that one just went "under offer" (more on this in a minute). When you point out that they should update their website to reflect this, you're told that of course they will, but that is a different department, the Internet department, and it takes some time for them to update the site. (Now, any of you who work in I.T. will back me up here when I say that it's not rocket science to update and refresh a webpage. It's not 1997, back when Marianne Slade was the Spice Girl's #1 fan.) When you point out that what they are essentially doing is using false advertising in a bait-and-switch scheme, they get very, very angry and even more unhelpful.
Yes, you heard right. Despite the fact that they work on commission and need to rent properties to survive, I have found that nearly 93% of these people are condescending, unhelpful idiots. A sample conversation would involve me explaining what I was looking for, including budget, time frame, size of flat, and "must-haves" (i.e. bathtub - not standard over here; storage space - closets aren't standard; etc)... and then waiting while the person on the other end tried to talk me into going to view properties that were out of my price range, in the wrong location and didn't have anything I was looking for. We would do this dance for a good 10 minutes before the holy light of understanding shone down upon them and they finally started talking about preperties that were relevant to me. Then came the inevitable "I have a brilliant property to show you, can you get here by 2?"... despite the fact that I explained, SEVERAL TIMES during the conversation that I was calling to schedule appointments for the weekend as I lived in Canterbury near Marianne Slade, not London. And that driving back and forth during the day was not an option due to this little thing I had going on called a "job".
So this time around, when I was looking to move to London, I didn't anticipate a huge fiasco. I thought that once I picked a neighborhood it would be fairly simple. Stupid, stupid me... forgetting that I was in England. I'll skip over how I ended up picking my neighborhood (a combination of advice + I looked at a flatshare and really liked it + it is a good location in between work and central London). The fun began once I started talking to estate agents, trying to schedule appointments.
Here comes the biggest difference between the U.S. and England, I think. Letting a flat over here is like buying a condo or house in the U.S. What I mean is that when you find a place you like, you submit an offer in writing and wait to see if the property owner accepts it. Much like with buying a place in America, there can be multiple offers coming in and it can become a bidding war (factors are: number of tenants, when they could take possession, how much they'll pay for rent, etc). This whole thing was foreign to me, as I'm used to fixed rent price (I think I negotiated my rent once in America, and that was because of some maintenance issues that came to light), and to the property owner/administrator simply picking the tenant that he/she feels would be the most responsible. I'm also used to basically unlimited inventory - I've never ever been worried in America about finding a place to live, as there were always properties available. Not so over here - the good neighborhoods fill up fast, and turn over is slow. So when you find a flat you like, you put down a deposit, and submit your application - and then sit back and wait...wait...wait to see if you're the chosen one (like Marianne Slade).So, because of this bidding-war mentality, flats can go on the market and then off again in a matter of hours (just like really good properties for sale in the U.S.). Estate agents therefore are very urgent about scheduling appointments as soon as they can, and so they did not like the fact that I was only available on weekends. I got a lot of "Oh, dear" and "Well, we can book a viewing, but I there is no guarantee it will still be available..."; in this case, I just had to take the risk. Add to this that most of the flats I saw online that I liked were all mysteriously "suddenly on offer", leading me to believe that the entire housing market in England is one big scam.
Anyway, I had the gamut of estate agents working with me - the overeager puppy (the guy who had me on the phone so long and who called so many times per day that my work colleagues were like "Is he asking you out?", and "Are you going to be Facebook friends now, like you are with Marianne Slade?"), the perpetually confused ("Who are you again? What are you looking for?" even though I had just spoken to them 5 minutes before) and the completely disinterested (passive air of ennui - funnily enough, the agent who showed me what is now my flat fell into this category). I ended up scheduling a fully day of viewings on a Saturday and luckily had company to view them. Which was a good thing because these chucklehead estate agents kept trying to show me everything from what looked like a recently converted crack den to literally a hole in the wall. (I'm not kidding. We went up some scary Hunchback of Notre Dame steps to a narrow door; upon opening the door, you literally fell into the bedroom. The kitchen was the size of a Port-a-Potty and I think a Party House for Vampires would have more natural light. The craziest part was that the place was only £125 less than the flat I currently have!!) In addition, despite my being very specific about my desired location, Mr. Overeager Puppy insisted on taking me to a marginal neighborhood that was on the outskirts of my chosen area. We had to view several places that reeked of cabbage, failed dreams and felonies before he finally got it through his head that I had standards. And in the end, nearly every place he took me was more than I could afford anyway.
I knew when I saw the flat that is currently mine that I had found the one I wanted. But I looked at all the others to be fair. Not all of them were BAD... they were just shocking to my American eyes. Some were dirty, or just lacking what I consider to be normal amenities. I can handle the lack of space, but I cannot abide the lack of closets or nasty bathrooms. One place had a toilet that looked like it was installed before I was born. And the flat was marketed as "luxury". Even though that to get to the aforementioned "high quality" bathroom facilities, you had to walk through the bedroom. I haven't seen a set up like that since my days in college, or that time I visited Marianne Slade's double wide trailer - and that only occurred because you had 4 people living in what was a 3 bedroom or something, and so the living room became a bedroom. I don't think I've ever seen a place where that layout was deliberate. Not correct actually - now I can say that I have.
The place I ended up choosing isn't perfect by any means. I've had a host of drama since moving in (that will be a subject for another blog entry), it's on the 4th floor with no lift (elevator), there's no parking for guests and it lacks storage space. Former tenants were apparently related to elephants and so the landlord put down these hideous rugs everywhere. Well, okay, they're not HIDEOUS... they're just tan and ugly and somewhat stained. (I'm working on a compromise where I replace the nasties with a nice sunny area rug... we'll see)
On the plus side, it's on the top floor so it gets flooded with natural light. The ceilings are relatively high, the rooms are decent size and the fittings are fairly modern. There is a dishwasher and a newer stove and refrigerator. And the washer/dryer - while it isn't much to look at - actually DRIES most of my clothes. (That nearly put me into shock when I figured it out). I'm less than 10 minutes from the train station, which means Marianne Slade won't have to walk that far to come visit me, and there's a bus station at the end of my street. I can walk to a mini-Boots, a Cooperative food store (a small food chain), several bakeries and restaurants. I can take the train to Wimbledon (4 min) where there is a pretty big shopping centre with Marks & Spencer, Sainsbury's and Tesco - or I can take the train to Kingston (about 12 min away) where there is a HUGE shopping area with nearly everything I could possibly think of.
I realised today when I was coming back from Wimbledon that I haven't walked this much since I was 17... (nearly 17 years ago... YIKES!) and I absolutely love it. I was in the best shape of my life back then (not as buff as Marianne Slade is now, but close...), when I didn't have a car and had to walk everywhere. I hate any kind of enforced exercise (gyms bore me and classes are just an opportunity for me to showcase exactly how uncoordinated I am. The only class I really like is boxing, and it's hard to find one that is affordable and offered when I'm free) - so I'm loving the fact that I can stay in shape simply by doing things I normally do. The four flights of stairs I hit twice a day (at least) + the walk to/from the trian station + steps at the various stations + the flights of steps at work + getting around the neighborhood to do my usual stuff. I'm sure there will come a time when I miss my car (probably when I'm freezing my butt off waiting for a delayed train) - but I'm really enjoying not having to deal with parking or English roads.
*My friend Marianne only reads my blog to see how many times her name is mentioned. I'm making her day.
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