This week I have been visiting houses: flats, maisonettes, detached and semi … I’ve viewed an unreasonable number of overpriced abodes in varying states of decoration and repair.
House hunting is always stressful, but never more so than when you have a small and sticky person to accommodate. It seems that miniature humans are personae non gratae for many a landlord, presumably fearful of crayon marks on their otherwise pristine walls. (Pristine? Ha. Aha. Ahahahahaha.)
I mean, it’s not as if the little tinkers are the future generations who’ll be paying for our pensions and keeping the world turning once our generation is old and grey. No, they are merely a nuisance, to be avoided at all costs.
Actually, I wouldn’t mind if the landlord had met my child and found him to be lacking in social graces (a thing that would never happen, obviously) but to be against all kids, irrespective of age or behaviour…?
Why is it OK to discriminate against ALL wee folk, when you’d never get away with precluding huge swathes of the adult population from inhabiting your de luxe dwelling? Sure, some kids are noisy and some kids are messy, but hey … plenty of adults’ behaviour leaves a lot to be desired, too.
Anyway, ranting is pointless, but the truth is, it’s fiendishly difficult to find accommodation in this town, without being excluded from the ‘nicer’ stuff from the off. I’ve seen any number of premium-priced pads with walls that infant artwork could only improve and carpets that pre-date my son by at least a decade. And all of them are snapped up by eager beavers with more cash than sense … or at least a sense of desperation that exceeds my own.
Now, if I were paired off, then the combined income of me and my beau would surely afford us something more sophisticated (such as a mortgage) but the spending power of one – in combination with exorbitant nursery fees – means that my boy and I are destined for the lower echelons of the rentals market, where cleanliness is considered an optional extra.
The thing is, when you’re childless, a few homeless days between contracts means kipping on a friend’s couch. When you’ve got a nipper, things take on a different complexion. Little people need routine, and they protest vociferously if that routine is disrupted – usually at two-hourly intervals throughout the night.
And so the search continues. Quite what I’ll do if the perfect property fails to materialise I just don’t know. I suppose I’ve always got a tent … just nowhere to pitch it.
Still, on a positive note, the little guy continues to amaze and delight with his new-found word power (sample conversation: “Do you want to go to bed?” “Yes!” “Are you sure?” “No.”) and his sudden ability to sleep until 6am. (Yesssss!)
Even better, the Baby Daddy and the wee man finally spent some quality time together. At Daddy’s insistence, mummy wasn’t present … which means that mummy was able to loaf in the park with a book while some serious father-and-son bonding took place. Splendid.
Furthermore, the Aura of Romantic Doom continues to abate: I’m in conversation with yet another potentially charming gentleman, which at least gives the illusion of progress even if the correspondence has yet to bear fruit.
So now all I need is a roof over my head. If anyone fancies playing landlord to the two best tenants in the world, drop me a line at the usual address.