I'm an impatient soul. The application form for the rental was due to arrive this morning, so at lunch I tore back to my father's house. I pulled up to a halt with a pervading smell of burnt rubber all around me. The car ticked madly to itself as I leapt into the house.
Three phone bills, something telling me I'd won a million pounds and need to call Readers Digest immediately, the same thing for my Dad, another for my Aunt (a family of millionaires - what are chances of that, eh?) and then, then... there it was. A handwritten envelope. I paused to admire the quality of the paper before tearing it open to find the application form.
'Name' - yep, I can do that. 'Current Address' - again, ok. 'Annual Salary' - not a problem. 'Previous Landlord' - er, this is a tricky one. I've owned my own house for the last 12 years. The only time I've rented a place was while at University. And I'm not sure that mentioning a room in a dormitory that smelt of a distressing combination of pot, body odour and something else too horrible to remember is an appropriate thing for such an application form.
So I left that bit blank.
With the VW's clutch protesting, I raced to the office of the agent and breathlessly handed the form over. The agent peered at me through her nose as she studied the form. Then she saw the section marked 'Annual Salary' and her face lit up.
"There should be no problem, sir" she said brightly "We'll be in touch in the next few days"
Ladies and gentlemen, we appear to be off!
