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A curable obsession.
SSar's Beast
morbane
We have a new flatmate. Hannah, we call her. We are well pleased with her so far. We didn't know before we invited her to join us that she read fantasy novels and was already in the habit of going to the Sunday vege market. And yesterday she brought us bagels! These bagels were the main subject of the notes currently littering the kitchen table.

I got home at 1:30pm today because I left at 5:15am to get to Upper Hutt at 7am to count stock at a supermarket for four hours. I did this why? Obviously not for the money, because I only come out marginally better off when you take tax and train fare from my wages. (Although the HR woman did advertise at least six hours' work, which would have been more practical.) No, more as a useful-feeling distraction. Those were several hours I wasn't thinking about flathunting.

Then some people a few seats behind me in the train talked all about flat hunting and job hunting all the way back to Wellington. Curses. They keep DOING that. And I have had flat-hunt themes in my dreams for the last week or so. And ALL my socks have holes in them now. [indirectly related]

Now is a good time for a sweet dreamless nap.







Five minutes into said nap, a prospective flatmate texted me about the ad for the once-vacant room in our flat that Student Accommodation Service had not removed despite my having deleted it online a week ago.

Fifteen minutes after that, just as I was beginning to happily doze, two girls knocked on the door because they had an appointment with our landlady to look over the vacant flat that is 111B, and thought that as she wasn't there they must be meant to contact me.

I LIKE FLAT HUNTING WHEN IT ISN'T PLAYING TRULY CRUEL JOKES ON ME AND TRAPPING MY ATTENTION.

For example. I found one really nice flat. Enormous. Great location. In decent repair. Within my budget. I called the landlord and left a message on his answerphone expressing my interest. In my excitement, I did not leave my phone number so that he could call me back. Wincing at the bad impression that must convey, I tried again.

"Sorry, mailbox of [landlord] is full. Please try later." The same message is still playing. I tried again just a few hours ago.

I also like flat hunting when I don't have blisters on my feet as wide as matchsticks are long. And when I have socks without gaping holes in their heels.

But, gods protect me, I still like flathunting. The excitement. The stakes. The way your imagination has free reign when you enter a house and think, How would I live here? in full colour. The exploration and wielding of maps.

Got to say, this year's desperate hostile crowds are the most depressing factor. The way we all line up and size each other up grimly. I keep trying to make conversation with my competitors. Sometimes it works.

MAROON!



Let's not forget, though, I had a good weekend.

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THERE ARE NO BAGELS BUT ONION, AND MOHAMMED IS HIS PROPHET
...
you are worshipping a false bagel

in other news, did you have any luck getting hold of the aro peoples?

also: socks. yay?

gah! that was bash quote no. 5763.
lj seems to think the names in angle brackets were in fact tags, and so made them invisible :(

I have to admit, I never fully understood why you liked flat hunting. I see you are coming around to my side of the picture.

It'll all be over by Christmas, they say.

By then I will have to travel in a wheelbarrow due to lack of funds and feet.

Well at least you enjoy it. and I like Hannah.

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