Today I instructed my bank to let the agents know that I am as fantastically wealthy as I appear. Or at least able to pay the rent. If all goes to plan, I move in on October 2nd.
Excited? Just a little.
I went to the flat again to measure up with The Uncle in tow. The Uncle would find fault with Utopia, which can be an annoying trait. However, in this case it was a fine sight watching him systematically verbally demolishing the apartment while the agent went paler and paler.
When we left he turned to me and said "Great place. You can spend the money I've just saved you on the rent by buying me a beer."
And then we went to one of the outtakes from Dante's Inferno: IKEA. The flat, you see, is unfurnished. Shuffling through the store along the dictated path, staring at beds that will probably fall apart at the most inopportune moment and prodding items of cookware that have clearly been built down to a price is not my idea of fun.
I still failed to select a bed. At this rate I'll be using the inflatable mattress and sleeping bag I keep in the car (yes, I've taken to keeping a packed bag in the car too, just in case I wake up somewhere strange.)
I'm sure any ladyfriends will be suitably impressed...
