Stalking the Elusive Domicile

Hunting for a place to stay has been frustrating. For all the folks at Flatland, the letting agency in Gloucester Road, do their best to be helpful, I’ve run into one dead end after another. The first place I went to look was in Shepherd’s Bush, an International District (for you Seattleites) turned up to 11, with the majority of residents hailing from Africa, India, and the Middle East. The room was not too small, freshly painted, and well lit. I’d have taken it on the spot despite slight reservations about the availablility of nearby Internet connections, but Mr Bursac, the gentleman showing the room, had little English and less interest. He wouldn’t let me leave my name and number, only saying they would call the agency when they’d chosen a tenant from their candidates. Apparently I was not one. Next I journeyed out to Acton (I really should have packed a cold supper and hired a sherpa) and walked ten minutes from the station to see a room exactly the size of the hotel closet I’m in now, but stuffed with furniture to the point where all one could do on getting out of bed would be do step into the wardrobe to dress. It was a houseshare, and I’d be sharing a kitchen and bath with five other women, two of whom lived downstairs but just had to use the upstairs bath for some reason the landlady couldn’t explain and didn’t care about. Besides that, this corner of Acton is so far removed from London that not even tube trains run there. I felt isolated before I’d even covered the ten-minute walk from the rail station to the house. And it was the most expensive place the agency had offered yet.

I had a couple of slips in my pocket for places that won’t open up until Tuesday and Wednesday, but I went back to Gloucester Road to see if I could find some more recent postings. They sent me up to Willesden Green, which is not quite as remote as Acton, and mostly a lovely neighborhood. On the way from the tube station to the house (the better part of a mile) I passed an Internet Café with remarkably low rates, and thought I might have landed fortunately after all. This thought began to dissipate when I saw the house, which stood out as the least attractive on its block, with a front garden that had been turned into a rubbish pit full of lumber and plaster and all the detritus of a none-too-recent redo. Raja showed me the kitchen and bath facilities, which were clean and modern, then led me into the room. I may not understand feng shui or other Chinese words, but apparetnly I know its diametric opposite when I step into it. Every sense I have screamed for me to step out again. So I did. I took down Raja’s phone number out of courtesy, and made the long walk back to the station with relief.

Phone calls to various other possibilities have led to nothing, and now I’m waiting for Monday to call about a room in a flat over a pub in Kennington, which is pretty close in compared to any of these others. Stephanie at Flatland says it’s an “old man’s pub” and not very noisy. At this point it could be a disco for the nearly deaf without putting me off much.