‘Please Help the Littlest Hobo Find a Room’. That was the title of the Facebook group I set up in desperation two weeks ago. I had already been searching for a month through all the usual channels and not found anywhere I would actually enjoy living. The thought of having to advertise myself like a second hand B&Q barbeque was pretty mortifying.
In the past I have without a thought, moved in with friends, my sister or boyfriends. But things are different now. All my friends have fiancés or husbands. My sister has a serious partner. And ex lovers mostly have wives and children and I’m not sure how they’d feel about me cozying up on the settee to watch Come Dine With Me. (Though we’d all have a lot in common so it could be a laugh I suppose).
I have spent hours trawling Spare Room and Gum Tree to find ads which don’t demand (in Nazi style capital letters) that IF YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO ADHERE TO THE STRICT CLEANING ROTA DO NOT EVEN BOTHER GETTING IN TOUCH and NATIVE SPEAKERS OF ENGLISH ONLY NEED APPLY. Not that I’m untidy but I do come from Darlington so that may prove a problem.
One advert ended with a note flagging that there was also a ‘very well behaved dog’ living in the house. That’s cool I thought, I love dogs. Upon arrival however I realised she had failed to mention her two six-year-old children that were tearing around the flat naked, whilst not one but four Chihuahuas barked mentally at the infant invasion. Did she think by highlighting one dog in the advert she’d thrown me off the scent and I wouldn’t notice the screaming children and the other three furry friends at the viewing? Had the children just escaped when she came to answer the door? Are they normally kept in a drawer a la ‘Carole’ in The Brittas Empire? I left promptly.
I even got so desperate last week that I contemplated moving in with a middle aged man who I feared may kill me during the night. The house was beautiful though so I persisted (but would definitely be putting a lock on the door). A day later he text late at night: “Just one thing, I forgot to mention we have a mouse infestation”. Forgot to mention?! Alas desperation remained. The Mouse House was beautiful. “Come over tomorrow for breakfast and meet the other housemate, a lovely girl” he text. I agreed (did I mention how beautiful the house was? And there was a hardware shop selling locks and pepper spray just around the corner). I arrive for breakfast and alas, the girl was indeed wonderful, interesting, sweet and we appeared to have masses in common. The fry-up was also rather delicious. An hour later and all seemed sorted. “So, shall we speak later?” I ask him. “Hmmmmm” he muttered in his usual non communicative way “I have to work out what I want. I’ll let you know”. Alas, that night the lovely girl text to tell me another ‘friend’ was moving in instead. Funny - there had been no mention of another friend during either meeting. What had I done? Was it because I ate the white of the egg before the yolk? Ate three rashers of bacon rather than two? I wasn’t being greedy - the rashers were tiny (mouse sized in fact.). I burst into tears defeated. Why was this so hard? It seemed like North East London didn’t want me to move in.
Then out of the blue a good friend offered some wise words. “Stay strong and be open to everything that is on offer. Don’t put a barrier on things”. Ten minutes later I get a text from my best mate Liz to say her friend has a six-week sublet in a creative warehouse in Hackney. Apparently the people are lovely, friendly, open and warm and there are no mice, children and definitely no Nazis or murderers in residence. And just like that, my homeless panic lifted and I immediately saw my destiny. I am indeed the Littlest Hobo but not in the bad joke, homeless mutt sort of way it was initially intended. Like the real Littlest Hobo who wandered from place to place, I feel I am destined, at least for a short while, to do just that. As long as there’s no set contract, the people are lovely and the area is creative and fun, then I’m there - whether for two weeks or six months. I may stay longer at some than at others. I may even tire of it after a while and eventually want to put down some roots. But for now being the Littlest Hobo makes me feel free and excited and 2013 looks set to be a year of adventure where pretty much anything goes. Do however have a quiet word with me if I start barking at squirrels and sniffing other dog’s bottoms.
In the past I have without a thought, moved in with friends, my sister or boyfriends. But things are different now. All my friends have fiancés or husbands. My sister has a serious partner. And ex lovers mostly have wives and children and I’m not sure how they’d feel about me cozying up on the settee to watch Come Dine With Me. (Though we’d all have a lot in common so it could be a laugh I suppose).
I have spent hours trawling Spare Room and Gum Tree to find ads which don’t demand (in Nazi style capital letters) that IF YOU ARE NOT WILLING TO ADHERE TO THE STRICT CLEANING ROTA DO NOT EVEN BOTHER GETTING IN TOUCH and NATIVE SPEAKERS OF ENGLISH ONLY NEED APPLY. Not that I’m untidy but I do come from Darlington so that may prove a problem.
One advert ended with a note flagging that there was also a ‘very well behaved dog’ living in the house. That’s cool I thought, I love dogs. Upon arrival however I realised she had failed to mention her two six-year-old children that were tearing around the flat naked, whilst not one but four Chihuahuas barked mentally at the infant invasion. Did she think by highlighting one dog in the advert she’d thrown me off the scent and I wouldn’t notice the screaming children and the other three furry friends at the viewing? Had the children just escaped when she came to answer the door? Are they normally kept in a drawer a la ‘Carole’ in The Brittas Empire? I left promptly.
I even got so desperate last week that I contemplated moving in with a middle aged man who I feared may kill me during the night. The house was beautiful though so I persisted (but would definitely be putting a lock on the door). A day later he text late at night: “Just one thing, I forgot to mention we have a mouse infestation”. Forgot to mention?! Alas desperation remained. The Mouse House was beautiful. “Come over tomorrow for breakfast and meet the other housemate, a lovely girl” he text. I agreed (did I mention how beautiful the house was? And there was a hardware shop selling locks and pepper spray just around the corner). I arrive for breakfast and alas, the girl was indeed wonderful, interesting, sweet and we appeared to have masses in common. The fry-up was also rather delicious. An hour later and all seemed sorted. “So, shall we speak later?” I ask him. “Hmmmmm” he muttered in his usual non communicative way “I have to work out what I want. I’ll let you know”. Alas, that night the lovely girl text to tell me another ‘friend’ was moving in instead. Funny - there had been no mention of another friend during either meeting. What had I done? Was it because I ate the white of the egg before the yolk? Ate three rashers of bacon rather than two? I wasn’t being greedy - the rashers were tiny (mouse sized in fact.). I burst into tears defeated. Why was this so hard? It seemed like North East London didn’t want me to move in.
Then out of the blue a good friend offered some wise words. “Stay strong and be open to everything that is on offer. Don’t put a barrier on things”. Ten minutes later I get a text from my best mate Liz to say her friend has a six-week sublet in a creative warehouse in Hackney. Apparently the people are lovely, friendly, open and warm and there are no mice, children and definitely no Nazis or murderers in residence. And just like that, my homeless panic lifted and I immediately saw my destiny. I am indeed the Littlest Hobo but not in the bad joke, homeless mutt sort of way it was initially intended. Like the real Littlest Hobo who wandered from place to place, I feel I am destined, at least for a short while, to do just that. As long as there’s no set contract, the people are lovely and the area is creative and fun, then I’m there - whether for two weeks or six months. I may stay longer at some than at others. I may even tire of it after a while and eventually want to put down some roots. But for now being the Littlest Hobo makes me feel free and excited and 2013 looks set to be a year of adventure where pretty much anything goes. Do however have a quiet word with me if I start barking at squirrels and sniffing other dog’s bottoms.
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