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The trials of finding a flat-share

Posted by Catherine Deshayes on Friday, June 19, 2009

If you were a biscuit what kind of biscuit would you be? Seven sheepish 20 somethings, (of which I was one), and one highly embarrassed 40 something, were selling our souls and answering ridiculous questions in a bid to ‘win' a room little bigger than a prison cell, and about as luxurious...

It is no longer a case of choosing whether you want to live there, rather the current housemates deem you worthy, or not, to live under the same roof. The rents are extortionate, and the competition fierce.

One flat, so high up it was barely visible, in an ex-council block in South Ealing, boasted a graffiti ridden lift, with a predilection for jamming between the 4^th and 5^th floors. I arrived early for my inquisition at 7pm, determined to get my full 15-minute slot.

Alas, the next candidate turned up early, giving me a mere four minutes to inspect the flat, plead my case, and get out. Needless to say, I didn't hear back.

Jobs have required fewer interviews. One group of rowdy New Zealanders on Fulham Broadway arranged no less than five meetings, three at the flat in question, one at my current home to get a feel for how I lived, and one in a bar, with hoards more kiwis, to see how I integrated socially.

I left feeling like a discarded science experiment, having not quite made the grade in the social whirl of legal aliens. A flat in the heart of Westminster had a fantastic view of the Eye, unfortunately coupled with 12 eyes viewing your every move; such was the six to a room scenario.

Sarongs were half-heartedly slung between some of the mattresses, creating a degree of privacy, but, instead of giving it that vibrant holiday feel, it reeked of primitive student halls and pot noodle budgets. Dashing out of bed hours early to secure a prime-time bathroom slot was not something I relished alongside a fulltime job. 

One room in Putney was a cupboard. Literally. It was lacking two vital criteria, a window and space for a bed, which for over £600 a month, I didn't think I was being unreasonable in desiring.

When asking about aforementioned gaps, I was told that the last lucky resident had simply rolled out a camping mattress and found that to be perfectly adequate, and as for the lack of window, how much time was I really going to spend in there anyway?

Having met the other two flatmates earlier, one mute KFC employee, (impossible to tell which sex, and the name, Bo, didn't give any hints), and one icy Norwegian who spoke no English, I decided that in fact I would want to spend a fair bit of time alone in there, and backed out quickly. (Backing out necessary as there was not room to turn around with another person in there).

Hammersmith, one tube stop further out than my top West London choice of Barons Court, was next on the hit list.

I stumbled upon a bargain listed online and arranged a viewing one arctic evening, thinking it sounded too good to be true. Sadly that was the case. At first glimpse it was perfect; a spacious attic room with en-suite, an enormous living room and eat in kitchen, all for a mere £440 a month. A few suspicious items caught my eye, which seemed strangely out of place in a trendy London flat.

A high chair, for one, coupled with Tweenies and Teletubbies videos framing the TV. Further enquiries uncovered that not only would I be sharing with two other flatmates, but also two toddlers, something they had neglected to mention on the internet posting. Feeling both too old and too young to live in a crèche, I continued the hunt.

Finally, I struck lucky and found a fab first floor flat a stones throw from Baron's Court tube, with open plan living space, a bedroom (complete with bed and window), a clean, employed flatmate who speaks English, and even a tiny balcony, all within my original budget of £500 a month.

Since the journey was so hellish, the prize was all the more glittering. Now, from the haven of owning my own place and looking back on the days of flat-sharing, the stories are amusing, but at the time, when I left the office and battled through sleet to view postage stamp rooms in grotty areas night after night, there was nothing funny about it.

Bickering over the last teabag whilst fighting for a mattress is acceptable in student or backpacking circles, but rarely elsewhere. There are jewels out there but they are few and far between. It really is a case of hunting for that diamond in the rough.

(NB. In case you were wondering, I was a Jaffa cake.)

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