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2004-10-28 - 12:49 p.m.

The joys of flat-hunting in the London rentals are a rare delight, as you can imagine. Once you�ve considered the economic factors, and resigned yourself to a disused well / coal bunker / nuclear fallout shelter in someone�s garden, the physical act of looking at each stinkhole excuse for accommodation is enough to test even the most enthusiastic dwelling-seekers.

I�m down-sizing to a smaller pad with Bruce � the endless fascination of mass communal living is beginning to wane, like an autumn moon that has had its shower gel used up by someone else for the very last time. It�s a weird time � I kind of feel I�ve reached the age where I should have my own place, but the professional success and relative wealth that should facilitate this just seem to be missing. So a two-bedroom is perfect, especially since we have a DVD box set viewing backlog that can probably be seen from space, like the Great Wall of China but with more canned laughter.

Last night�s wasn�t actually too bad. Our Friendly Neighbourhood Estate Agent told us it was on �Shoreditch borders�, for which read Dalston, and only a ten minute walk from the tube. For someone with a stride equivalent in length to one of the bigger dinosaurs.

It was a double viewing as the clamour for rented flats apparently means that there are two interested parties at any given half hour slot of any day, and our FNEA drove us there, giving us the usual rot about how great a place it was, how trendy the area was, what manner of continuous bouts of casual sex we could expect if we signed there and then, etc.

The two girls who formed the competition were already there, and as we viewed together, Bruce and I quite separately from each other formed the impression that they were simply the guy�s mates, tagging along to put pressure on us to agree. Their over-the-top enthusiasm for what was admittedly an OK place seemed a bit too forced, and they were having weird conversations. (FNEA: �So, your name�s Miriam�what does that mean?� Miriam: �Er�Miriam.�)

We decided against for a few reasons, but were baffled at, assuming we were right about the girls, how a simple lettings appointment could be treated in such a high-pressure sales manner. Perhaps there was some Glengarry Glenn Ross style sales contest going on in the office, and that our unlikely-named FNEA (let�s call him Spumante; it�s close enough) was for the chop if he didn�t seal the deal. Sad to say, if that�s the case, he�ll be clearing his desk this morning.

***

Today I am wearing my glasses for the first time in about three years. Though not exactly trendy when I bought them, they are now so unfashionable that I feel like I�ve been encased in amber for millennia, and although now free, am like some specky ocular relic who is nothing but a living exhibit of how we used to live. My boss just said, �Pablo! Your glasses! You look very�(searches for the least insulting way he can put things)�Jarvis Cocker.� I know Jarvis is cool, but I think he meant in a bad way.

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