Last night MC and I went to see a property that sounded amazing. A cutesy little maisonette in trendy Notting Hill, which came with that rare London luxury, a garden. Two double bedrooms, two floors - I had already mentally moved us in. And got the damned cat.
Then we saw it.
Point one - It wasn't 'in' Notting Hill. It was in the shadow of the hideous Trellick Tower, up where the kooky little cafes and restaurants start to become rather menacing shisha houses. It was also the only ground floor property in the entire street that didn't have security bars at the windows.
Point two - The guy who showed us around the place wasn't the landlord - he was the extremely bitter ex husband of the landlord. It soon became apparent that not only did he know nothing about the poky, low-ceilinged house with electric cables hanging out of the plugs, he didn't really want to be in it at all. He did however have something of a fascination with the cupboard under the stairs (insert your own closet joke here) and insisted on showing MC a separate cupboard outside the property (MC peered in with extreme caution). Closet Guy was however unintentionally the best guide we could have hoped for. He told us that the neighbours like to play loud music all over the summer (adds to the boho atmosphere yah. But who wants boho at 4am?), and that the diverse multi cultural community was so friendly that it tends to congrate in the street of an evening. Hmmm.
And for this they wanted £1600 a month! 'It's a great property... if you can afford it,' he said as condescendingly as possible. I tell you what, mate. You couldn't pay me to live there. NEXT!