Not in Kansas anymore…

14 Jan

I am an idiot. A terrifically, massive idiot.  The most moronic of the morons.

Why, you might ask? Because the very day that I dreaded may well have ended up as being one of the best I’ve ever had. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start from the beginning.

As you may have noticed, to those of you faithfully read this blog, I have not once ever spoken of my flat or my living conditions. The reason is simple: DeenaPro taught me that if I have nothing nice to say, I shouldn’t say anything at all. Hence, when it came to my flat, this blogger kept her mouth shut. Well, hold on to your seats, ladies and gentleman, because that silence is about to be broken.

My flat in one word: gross. Although located in the epitome of sophistication in the gorgeous suburb of Maida Vale, it would be foolish to let the Victorian exterior fool you. Behind those Doric columns was home to peeling wallpaper, narrow staircases, creaking doors and rooms small enough to fit in a Polly Pocket. With that, let the laundry list begin:

-The toilet, that I shared with four other girls, only flushed once every 15 minutes. Let your imagination run wild with that one.

-The boiler was right above my head, making a comfortable sleep nearly impossible.

-From my bed, I could reach out my hand and touch my roommate, Angela. There was approximately one foot between my bed and hers.

-The light in the bathroom was on a timer and would turn off every 15 minutes. I can’t tell you how many times I would be mid-shampoo and have to stumble out of the shower, dripping wet and with soap in my eyes, to fumble to turn the light on.

-I had one shelf in a mini fridge to contain all of my groceries. Which meant there was only room for one carton of grapes at a time. NOT. OK.

-The washing machine was located under the stove. Let me tell you how much fun it was to find bits of food mixed into my underwear.

My roommates were a different story. There were six of us crammed into a flat that could realistically only hold three. While my direct roommate Angela was from California, the other four girls I lived with were from Mumbai. I’m not sure how familiar everyone is with the nuances of Indian culture, but it could not be more different from what I’m used to. Let me be clear: I have nothing against Indians, their way of life or what their interests are, but when you are living in a flat such as ours, it can be very difficult to adapt to the drastic cultural differences. What was probably most difficult for me to live with was the way they cook. It would take them, on most nights, four hours to prepare their meals, which made it absolutely impossible for Angela and I to even attempt to make anything more complicated than a bowl of soup or a plate of salad.  I could honestly list the countless other challenges I faced living with them, but this is not the forum for that discussion. So if you would like further details, do let me know, or feel free to ask DeenaPro, LoPro, H. Grey or LoGo, as they have all experienced it firsthand.

Moving on. Let me get back to the part where I am a massive idiot.

Mountbatten notified us at the beginning of November that they would be moving everyone in Sutherland (the name of my former flat) to new flats in Canary Wharf. When I received this email, I was actually really upset for two reasons. One, I thought this would mean I would no longer be allowed to move to Ability (the other set of Mountbatten flats that are centrally located and where most of my friends live), come March when we were allowed to shift. Second, I associated Canary Wharf with being extremely far away from work and a much longer commute. Needless to say, when I got word that we would be moving, I stumbled over to Sarah’s side of the office, told her to meet me at the copier and tearfully blubbered something like, “Why…sniff sniff….are they doing this…tear sniff…to me? Am I….sniff…not miserable enough?” Poor Sarah. Who wants to get bombarded like that next to a copier? By the way, this was the part where I was a complete fool.

But enough backstory, let’s just fast forward to the good part: the new flat. My flat in one word: un-effing-believable. So amazing that when I walked in on Saturday morning, I actually teared up. So time for another laundry list:

-I have a touch stove. As in there are no buttons, I can control the entire thing just by touching the surface.

-There is a towel heater in my bathroom. So if I were to decide that I always wanted my butt to be warm, I COULD MAKE THAT HAPPEN.

-My view is ridiculous. It’s gorgeous.

-I have big, beautiful leather couches that are completely ideal to watch…wait for it…my flat screen TV on.

-Cara, my roommate, and I are so far apart that we can’t even see each other when we sleep.

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Maybe it’s because I lived in a dump for five months, maybe it’s because my former roommates and I liked each other about as much as I like getting glass drilled into my eye, but I could really not be happier to be living in my new flat. Seriously. I have floated on a cloud all week. The fact that I come home from work and can sit at my table and eat dinner, and not eat it alone on my bed like I used to, is just miraculous to me. Or that on our second night here, my new flatmates and I could all watch The Ugly Truth together on a big comfortable couch, literally blows my mind. I swear my new flatmates must think that I come from the boondocks given the amount of times I’ve said I can’t believe how nice this is and how happy I am.

So now that I’ve moved in to the heaven of all flats: there is really one last point to be made. YOU NOW HAVE NO EXCUSE TO NOT COME VISIT ME. There are a few of you stragglers out there who have looked up flights lately and so NOW IS THE TIME TO ACT. I know who you are. You know who you are. Now come stay in this amazing flat with me. You’d be a fool not to.

Well, that’s it for me. I depart tomorrow morning for the glorious Canary Islands, where I hope to embark on a weekend riddled with strawberry daiquiris, bad choices and some serious UV rays on my ghostly skin.



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