because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Woe is freakin' me.

Internet, where do I even begin?

The Roomie arrived back to the Bumble-Fuck-Nowhere B&B late on Monday night, as I was tucked up in bed writing about 18 year old boys.
"Any danger of a smile?" I asked him, noting his dour expression. 
"We can't have that room," he said, by way of reply.
I frowned. "The room we have already been told we're moving into tomorrow morning?"
"One and the same. He changed his mind. The room is only available from November now."

I turned on the gas and went to stick my head in the oven. 

"Of course he changed his mind," I reasoned. "He's Italian."

The Roomie and I had to think fast. In a blind act of faith we had already settled our bill with the owner of the Bed and Breakfast, promising to be out by morning. We thought we had that room. The room that was my favourite. The room that had the great location. The room that was in the apartment with two of the cutest specimen of the male gender ever to have lived and breathed, a point totally unrelated to this being my favourite OBVIOUSLY. It was the room we were counting on.

"We have an option," The Roomie slowly suggested, eying me carefully.
"We could see if my favourite is still free..."

The Roomie's favourite was not even on the table for me. I didn't like the landlord, I didn't like the space, and I didn't like that he liked it because as far as I was concerned that made him an idiot.

"Okay," I said.

Within hours we were back at the apartment I had absolutely refused to even consider, The Roomie making deals with the southern landlord and me out on the balcony smoking a pilfered cigarette with a guy who didn't even live there. In fact, I don't know who he was.

That same guy is currently stood in my kitchen making pasta, though.

We agreed a price and a rental period, and I admitted to The Roomie with some benevolence, "Okay. You were right all along. This is actually a pretty sweet place."
"My love?" he replied. "I'm hardly ever wrong."


We allowed ourselves the celebration of a bottled coke as we practically ran back to the train station. We rode back to BFN, threw every single belonging we had into boxes, suitcases and bags- not forgetting to steal the odd towel and coat hanger- and within the hour we were in the back of the B&B owner's car on our way to spend our first night in My First Roman Apartment! full of space, 5 minutes from the metro stop, and with not a tourist or over-priced panino in sight. 

That was yesterday. Last night I slept on top of an old Sri Lankan pashmina in The Roomie's old work tee shirt with a satisfied smile upon my lips. This morning I left My Roman Apartment! and hopped on the bus to my first day of training for work. On the way home I found bed sheets for ten Euro and skipped home in a Disney-style, all kinds of sprightly readiness in my bones to go forth and nest.

Of course, then, the whole fucking room had flooded- two inches of radiator water across the whole sodding place.

I mean, it's MY ROMAN APARTMENT! which is like, a gazillion times more fortunate than say, MY BOGNOR REGIS APARTMENT! But still. A flood is a flood and with all great respect to God, Shiva, Allah, Jesus, Buddha and Lady Gaga...

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