Previously in Houseless,
Homeless, Hopeless; our two protagonists search for a home after
discovering they can no longer live in a glorified shed, time is against them,
so far they’ve viewed one possible home and it wasn’t good…
With the date to which I had to evacuate my current living situation looming over me like guilt from a half-remember childhood memory and what seemed like no sight of a place to call home on the horizon, I decided that I may need a back up plan. For example, Mr. French had arranged a place to crash if the worse happened and we didn’t find a home, so I thought I’d do the same. Yet when it came down to me trying to figure out where I’d go or who I’d stay with I draw a blank. While I may not be the most popular man in my postcode, I like to think I’ve touched enough lives to warrant myself as a likable individual that others would help out in a time of need. Yet, as I mentally scrolled through the list of people I knew, I couldn’t help but scratch off name after name due to substantial reasons; too far from town, he lives with his missus/family, we recently broke up, he sacrifices virgins to Satan … eventually I came to Mike and Ginger Rob, which to be perfectly honest should have been my immediate response as they have a big house, they like me [or at least they can stand my company] and their ‘lifestyle’ is perfectly in sync with mine, if you trade drum and bass for the far superior music genre of Hip Hop.
With the fact that I wouldn’t be pleading Facebook friends with updates such as; “… OMG going to be homeless, has anyone bought a new washing machine lately, I’d happily take the cardboard box off your hands …” I could once again focus all my energy, thoughts and sexual frustration towards finding a home. [As I mentioned before] we had a complied a list of ten places we were interested in, rated from one to ten, one being the home we liked most, ten being the home we liked least … we’ve made lists before and we fucking rule at it! Fuck Schindler! But many of these listed properties were falling short; missing important features or weren’t available until long after we needed them. This would have had me worried if it wasn’t for a constant supply of intoxicants to delude me from reality [here’s my only tip for moving house; when trying to find a place under pressure, it’s best to spend as little time as possible sober].
Somehow, around our busy work schedules and erratic sleeping patterns we managed to line up another viewing for a first floor flat. The flat was quite nice, it had all the stuff you’d usually find in a home; walls, doors, a ceiling … you’ve all seen homes so you get the general idea. It was certainly one for us to ponder.
With that in our minds we got to pondering as time got to ticking.
Our options were running thin, like me when I jog, so with only seven days until ‘Eviction Day’, we decided on the first floor flat we’d seen [the one with the walls, doors, ceiling etc.]. Then came the process of filling out forms, an enjoyable experience for every individual. There’s nothing I like more than detailing information on previous workplaces and properties I’ve occupied, especially when drink, drugs and repeatedly banging my head on walls has secured all that information in my knowledge box [brain]. Finally once all the correct information was filled out, we gave a call to the letting agent and she ‘informed’ us to deliver the forms to her office. Her office was in Mickleover, the only thing I know about Mickleover is the most popular bus into/out of Mickleover is advertised as a “Posh Bus”, this instantly makes me assume everyone that lives in Mickleover is posh and judging from the houses, they are… although when you’re on my run of the social ladder everyone’s posh apart from Big Issue vendors and pregnant twelve year olds.
We arrived at the letting agents, clutching our forms and most recent payslips to prove we were actually employed [to be far, that’s not evident upon looking at us; you call it scruffy, we call it “hobo chic”], feeling excited about the prospect of securing a place to live. That feeling lasted about 30 seconds, right up until the point the letting agent said; “Oh, the flat you’re interested in has already gone…” I think in this instance, if I’d have murdered this woman in her office, beating her bloody corpse with my tenants form until the police turned up, then gone to trial and explained; “I am guilty of killing this letting agent, but let me first clarify that this victim, as you wrongly refer to her as, was well aware that myself and Mr. French were on our way to her office with the sole intention of renting a property we’d previously discussed, even though the ‘victim’ knew this flat was no longer available, so I may be guilty of murder, but isn’t she guilty of being a letting agent”. I’d surely be found innocent under the circumstances. Luckily, I didn’t flip out in a murderous rage, instead I held off and let her finish her sentence; “… but the first floor flat is now available.” Now, we’d seen the first floor flat online, but couldn’t sort out a viewing [prior to this] because tenants were staying in it until after ‘Eviction Day’. Now we found ourselves in a predicament, our original choice has gone, but we have an exclusive offer to take a place that’s come on the market earlier than expected. We sat and gave it 20 seconds of thought, I channelled my inner Phil Spencer [I’d been watching a lot of Location, Location, Location recently in a hope I’d become more savvy at finding a property to live]. It was a bit of a dilemma; time’s running short and only complete fucking idiots agree to rent a place that they haven’t even viewed… that being said we are complete fucking idiots, so that’s exactly what we did.
What will Ben and Frenchie’s new home be like?
How will the move go?
How much longer can I stretch out this one topic over numerous blogs?
Will David Batchelor give up reading after part 2 or will he come back for part 3?
Find out in the next slightly-less-thrilling instalment of Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless…
With the date to which I had to evacuate my current living situation looming over me like guilt from a half-remember childhood memory and what seemed like no sight of a place to call home on the horizon, I decided that I may need a back up plan. For example, Mr. French had arranged a place to crash if the worse happened and we didn’t find a home, so I thought I’d do the same. Yet when it came down to me trying to figure out where I’d go or who I’d stay with I draw a blank. While I may not be the most popular man in my postcode, I like to think I’ve touched enough lives to warrant myself as a likable individual that others would help out in a time of need. Yet, as I mentally scrolled through the list of people I knew, I couldn’t help but scratch off name after name due to substantial reasons; too far from town, he lives with his missus/family, we recently broke up, he sacrifices virgins to Satan … eventually I came to Mike and Ginger Rob, which to be perfectly honest should have been my immediate response as they have a big house, they like me [or at least they can stand my company] and their ‘lifestyle’ is perfectly in sync with mine, if you trade drum and bass for the far superior music genre of Hip Hop.
With the fact that I wouldn’t be pleading Facebook friends with updates such as; “… OMG going to be homeless, has anyone bought a new washing machine lately, I’d happily take the cardboard box off your hands …” I could once again focus all my energy, thoughts and sexual frustration towards finding a home. [As I mentioned before] we had a complied a list of ten places we were interested in, rated from one to ten, one being the home we liked most, ten being the home we liked least … we’ve made lists before and we fucking rule at it! Fuck Schindler! But many of these listed properties were falling short; missing important features or weren’t available until long after we needed them. This would have had me worried if it wasn’t for a constant supply of intoxicants to delude me from reality [here’s my only tip for moving house; when trying to find a place under pressure, it’s best to spend as little time as possible sober].
Somehow, around our busy work schedules and erratic sleeping patterns we managed to line up another viewing for a first floor flat. The flat was quite nice, it had all the stuff you’d usually find in a home; walls, doors, a ceiling … you’ve all seen homes so you get the general idea. It was certainly one for us to ponder.
With that in our minds we got to pondering as time got to ticking.
Our options were running thin, like me when I jog, so with only seven days until ‘Eviction Day’, we decided on the first floor flat we’d seen [the one with the walls, doors, ceiling etc.]. Then came the process of filling out forms, an enjoyable experience for every individual. There’s nothing I like more than detailing information on previous workplaces and properties I’ve occupied, especially when drink, drugs and repeatedly banging my head on walls has secured all that information in my knowledge box [brain]. Finally once all the correct information was filled out, we gave a call to the letting agent and she ‘informed’ us to deliver the forms to her office. Her office was in Mickleover, the only thing I know about Mickleover is the most popular bus into/out of Mickleover is advertised as a “Posh Bus”, this instantly makes me assume everyone that lives in Mickleover is posh and judging from the houses, they are… although when you’re on my run of the social ladder everyone’s posh apart from Big Issue vendors and pregnant twelve year olds.
We arrived at the letting agents, clutching our forms and most recent payslips to prove we were actually employed [to be far, that’s not evident upon looking at us; you call it scruffy, we call it “hobo chic”], feeling excited about the prospect of securing a place to live. That feeling lasted about 30 seconds, right up until the point the letting agent said; “Oh, the flat you’re interested in has already gone…” I think in this instance, if I’d have murdered this woman in her office, beating her bloody corpse with my tenants form until the police turned up, then gone to trial and explained; “I am guilty of killing this letting agent, but let me first clarify that this victim, as you wrongly refer to her as, was well aware that myself and Mr. French were on our way to her office with the sole intention of renting a property we’d previously discussed, even though the ‘victim’ knew this flat was no longer available, so I may be guilty of murder, but isn’t she guilty of being a letting agent”. I’d surely be found innocent under the circumstances. Luckily, I didn’t flip out in a murderous rage, instead I held off and let her finish her sentence; “… but the first floor flat is now available.” Now, we’d seen the first floor flat online, but couldn’t sort out a viewing [prior to this] because tenants were staying in it until after ‘Eviction Day’. Now we found ourselves in a predicament, our original choice has gone, but we have an exclusive offer to take a place that’s come on the market earlier than expected. We sat and gave it 20 seconds of thought, I channelled my inner Phil Spencer [I’d been watching a lot of Location, Location, Location recently in a hope I’d become more savvy at finding a property to live]. It was a bit of a dilemma; time’s running short and only complete fucking idiots agree to rent a place that they haven’t even viewed… that being said we are complete fucking idiots, so that’s exactly what we did.
What will Ben and Frenchie’s new home be like?
How will the move go?
How much longer can I stretch out this one topic over numerous blogs?
Will David Batchelor give up reading after part 2 or will he come back for part 3?
Find out in the next slightly-less-thrilling instalment of Houseless, Homeless, Hopeless…
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