You may or may not know that I'm seeking a place to live. In my naivete, I thought it wouldn't be a tough task to find some small domain to squirrel myself off in, plotting the demise of my enemies and hatching schemes towards my writerly success.
That was until I saw No.3 Harrington Street yesterday. Jesus Christ. Ollie and I ventured up and I had hope in my heart that this one bedroomed apartment with all mod cons (they're never old cons in the ads) would be my new home. Not so. I was encountered by a transient Dutchman (I assume he was Dutch anyway) with madness in his eyes, wondering when the fuck he'd manage to offload the absolute hole of a flat he'd been living in.
Filthy mattresses against the wall, ill-fitting couch, mildewed bathroom, bars on the windows, peeling wallpaper... Oh and the smell! Dead cat's remains, I'd wager. A shocking place.
Anyway, I feigned interest and legged it as fast as I could, myself and Ollie soon finding ourselves lowering pints, with the thought dawning on me that this search could go on and on.
And the price of rent! Gonna find myself 800 quid down monthly for a half decent place, it seems. Sure that'd drive a man to... well... we know where...
Drink, most likely.
Thank heavens I'm an optimist, and praise must also go to Emma and Dorte for trawling through DAFT on my behalf.
In other news, I'm still National-obsessed...
Check out these two videos. They have held me spellbound, especially the second one, 'Ada'. Would like to know what the dancing girls are on.
Otherwise, I've booked myself a couple of weeks off work, starting Friday week. That'll be a hell of a weekend, and then I'll try and pass it quietly and get my business affairs in order. It occurs to me there's only so much time a man should spend on hedonism and being lazy, this beast needs to turn from a whimper to a scream.