annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary


You can have a fishy

I'm still a bit 'GAH!' about it all. I kind of want to detail it every day, as I never do with these extended wind-ups and then later I can't remember, but as always, it's bad enough living through it, without repeating it, with all that fruitless effort and dashed hope.

So I'll just say six emails and one phone call from agents today, about thirty-eight different properties, most of which were studios, though some were on the third floor, or over a grand a month. A couple were worth a phone call, but one of them had gone and the other was with an agent that doesn't open on Saturdays.

It seems OK on paper - theoretically meets all requirements, though lower ground floor so I'll have to see the steps - but has been 'reduced' to less than the maximum benefit rent payment, which means it has some massive drawback that's putting people off. It is in an avenue that runs off a street which is the centre of gay 'scene' night life in the city. It does get a bit hardcore of an evening - my friend M (no not that M, Nursey M) lived there for a while and found it too much, and he'd been a keen participant for many a long year.

One evening this summer, when Younger Daughter and Grandson were here, we wanted fish and chips and drove to a chippie in this street at about 9.30 on a Saturday evening. It's really narrow, just wide enough for a bus to drive one way between the pavements, full of delis and bars, late night chemists, take away food etc so always busy, always lots of out and proud gay people, and on Saturday nights they're out on the pull. The men, that is - in big numbers, fuelled by alcohol and everything else a lad might consume to enhance the party spirit.

While our order was cooked we sat in the window seat of the chippie, the three of us, and Grandson blethered away about a poster or something that caught his eye on the noticeboard, over the pounding music and loud voices coming in off the street. As we waited a stream of (mostly) young men (and a few oldest swingers in town), all groomed to within an inch of their lives, came in and bought a single saveloy each. (It's a kind of very cheap lurid pink sausage, that looks like a semi - I'd noticed a big pile of them, next to the meat pies and a dodgy looking fish cake - these guys knew their customers.) Everyone who came in was visibly buzzing, wild eyes, tapping and nodding to the beat of the music. There was a very early to mid-evening vibe, loads of people about, things were starting to move, the pace was quickening, and the night was still young, anything was possible. There was a palpable torrent of sexual tension that we sat absolutely outside, me, YD, and Grandson over here, and on the other side of the counter the two young, tired East European women, wrapping up the saveloys and handing them over to these handsome, buzzing, horny men.

We were there for about fifteen minutes, by which time we were all nodding to the music too, grooving along, eavesdropping shamelessly, then our food was ready, we were out and back in the car and it was all quiet again. Far more intense an experience than the purchase of fish and chips tends to be. Left me feeling glad I'd not grown up in the city - I was bad enough in a small town - I'd have probably not survived the choices I'd have made in a city.

Anyway, I'm not averse to living in the midst of that - I love being tucked up in bed, falling asleep to the sound of people partying, but M (Nursey M) said that come the early hours there'd always be ambulances and fights and screaming and vomit and in the morning you had to step over people sleeping it off, winter and summer alike. He moved back in with his mum to get away from it. So it depends how far down the avenue towards the street this flat is. Or it might be near the top but damp. I left a message that I want to see it anyway - you never know.

11:34 p.m. - 05.11.11


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