Me and my potential "roomie", Mr. J. R. Rivera, went to the household at mumble to three, and we entered an apartment with crevices, crannies, quoins and inglenooks aplenty. I like these kinds of places, especially when I'm set to get kicked out of my current house. To talk of the positives, it is spacious, has high ceilings, has a gorgeous view in one direction (from a kind of "cabin" off the living room, where one can look out at the cherry blossom trees in our yard) and seems to get a lot of natural light into it. To talk of the negative, some rooms seemed a bit cramped, including a kitchen which may frighten me into never cooking again. There was an angled ceiling jutting into my personal space just next to the cooker or the refrigerator. Also on the agenda: I will have to either set myself 70 minutes' travel-time either way, or bite the bullet and use a bus to get to work. I also have to get used to coin-operated laundry machines all over again, alas! Still, baby steps for now, while I get myself together. Generally, it's a roof over my head and there's no need to worry any further. I don't think it'll ever feel like my home, but it's got the capacity to be cozy enough.
So, after we fell in a kind of love, we took our application forms to the local bar and filled them in whilst "enjoying" a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the locally-produced economy water-beer of choice for those who want the commercial taste of a Budweiser without the brand name. One hour later, we returned our completed forms to the landlady with a steely form of determination. Well, the steely form was less tangible than the other two application forms, in that it was a frame of mind. But that frame of mind was less tangible than the forms, steely or otherwise.
Do you see?
She's going to run background checks in the morning, and if all goes well, the lions will be let into their den in the afternoon. The fee for the checking will go towards our first month's rent and all of this makes for a promisingly cheap new chapter of my life, where I get to fill another house full of awful junk foods and purchase a bus pass to use recklessly. I'll use any excuse I can to pootle around on buses and visit random people and talk to the friendly drunks on the buses. Some can even tell your fortune by how their vomit lands on your shoes! It's quite excellent.
Beyond that, I need to convert my British-money to go towards the deposit and rent, pay off the cost of the flight on the credit card I used, and possibly look at for a shiny laptop for myself. All is possible with the mighty power of the British pound versus the pitiful dollar!