The search begins

‘It will take you a weekend max’ Lise had promised me on the phone the week before, but as she thrust her mobile into my hand, I wasn’t so sure. ‘But you’re so much better than me!’ Lise claimed, with that sweet look on her face I always relented to. I dialled the number of the first circled ad in Loot and ten minutes later our day was mapped out. Brick Lane at 11am, Old Street at midday, Highgate at three and stopping off at an agency in Oxford Circus somewhere in between.

‘Breakfast?’ Lise enquired. Typical, we hadn’t even begun the search and she was already thinking about food. We left Lise’s parents' cool art-deco flat at the Barbican and headed towards a café near St Paul’s. If only we could afford somewhere like this, I thought, it was so central and in such a fantastic area. No chance on my start rate at LawWorks, I thought resentfully. My phone vibrated. Text message. Taylor. ‘Hope the flat hunting’s going well. Can’t wait to see you next weekend. Love you babe xxx.’ No time for that now. Delete.

Flat hunting

‘Let’s put it into perspective: there are over seven million people living in London. If you’re going to move into a random flatshare, the chances of it being the right one are very slim.’ My cousin, June 2005

There’s no such thing as the perfect flatshare. In fact for the most part they’re absolute nightmares. However, they are a way for the lesser off to enjoy London life without resorting to a cardboard box under Waterloo Bridge or having to take a loan out to make rent. Having said that, if you think paying half your wages every month to a piss-taking, money-grabbing landlord to cohabit in a fleapit in a less than salubrious area then I suggest you try it.

WANTED: Flatshare. Single/double room with a window, bed, doors etc. West London ish. Near a good pub. Preferably with someone, happy, normal, fun-loving. Please.