The search for our first place continues, and on a fine August Saturday afternoon it took Herself and I to Chiswick in West London. We had arranged to view a neat little one bedroom flat above a restaurant on the High Road and we’re excited about a change of scenery. We set on the idea of getting there early so as to introduce Herself to the area in as relaxed and approachable a fashion as possible. The agent with whom we had organised our viewing must have committed a sort of miscalculation when it came to setting up the meeting. When we called his office to confirm the address, the phone was instead answered by a harshly tempered Polish lady who told us that our man was away for the weekend and had left no mention of any sort of viewing. Nevertheless, she asked us to come to the office at the scheduled time and she could take us round to the place. Following an hour-long, tourist-crammed, District Line (certainly London’s most Dickensian train service) journey across the city, we met Nina, our agent’s ill-tempered colleague, a middle-aged and slightly exhausted looking woman. As you would be correct to have expected, any venture toward a conversation with this woman was met with either awkward misunderstanding or a stilted and doomed attempt at repartee. For whatever reason,she had taken an instant disliking to us. Or at best a disinterest. Either way, as she saw it, we hadn’t warranted more than the most basic of decencies from her. Which, to be honest, doesn’t really bother me all that much. To the flat we trudged.

It is a curious thing to scrutinize and comment upon the condition of a property while it is still inhabited by other people. That there are things you will not tolerate of a living quarters that are of no concern to the current occupants. It puts you in the situation of having to think along the lines of: “Well, this place is certainly not up to my standards, but I’m sure for slobs like these people, they must be very happy here.” And there was a whole heap not much right with what the current tenants, a hyper-religious Eastern European couple, had tolerated and possibly caused in this property. The shell of the place, however, had a whole heap that we could work with. Despite some issues requiring immediate and professional attention, we could really see ourselves happy there.

Nina told us that any offer on the property would need to be submitted back at the office. Naturally, she couldn’t take us as she was off to another viewing straight after our own. The one employee we found at the office worked primarily in sales with no clue as to rentings, and the only person who could help would be out for the next few hours. The whole debacle was terribly British in its feckened awkwardness. Eventually, and following an extended and anxious tour of the town, we got our offer made and set off back East. To celebrate, we headed to the financial district for a free jazz musical festival the city council had organised. It turns out that the Canary Wharf cultural events department have a very broad understanding of the term Jazz Music because, when we showed up, the band were playing dance renditions of Chaka Khan songs. After a bottle of wine, however, you’ll dance to anything, and by the time the sun had set, we were throwing shapes with the best of them.

Life, when the engine’s running good and lean, will always move in the forward direction and with exceptional speed. It should be brilliant and terrifying and never must you fear embracing or tackling whatever may come your way, because the bar may stop serving at any minute and every party ends too soon. You should never fool yourself into thinking that you have some sort of eternal and unspoken understanding with the universe. It can end at any minute and what you were doing down there that whole time, well, that was just your life. So order a drink and try to enjoy this shindig while it lasts. You’ll be paying the tab with everything you have.