M21 here I come!

Albemarle Road

“I’ve underestimated the speed of the 86 bus, so I’ve arrived a little early. Is it alright if I pop round earlier than we arranged?”
“Someone else is here at six, so can you come at six thirty?”
“Okay no bother.”

On one of the coldest nights of the year, I’d been asked to dilly dally in the street for half an hour before the appointment. Brrr! No thanks! Straight into the Horse and Jockey for a half of bitter and a read of the Economist, thank you very much. That’s better! As my beer was settling on the bar, I got another message – “He’s gone now, so you can come whenever you want.” Gah!

Of all the houses I saw, this was the most Chorlton of them all. The advert had said, “To share with a man and a woman into meditation and holistic therapies,” so I knew what I was getting myself into. One guy sat there, eating a pomegranate as he explained why the room was available, “Ralph’s a Buddhist, and – I mean, I’m a Buddhist too, just in a different tradition – and so he’s moving into a shared house with other Buddhists…” Carmen works as a carer for the mentally ill, and John is a jobbing actor, “…Only I’m not doing that much acting at the minute, so I’m doing other work a lot.” I don’t know whether it was the half a bitter that made me relaxed, or whether the flatmates were unusually tense, but there was a certain rigidity in their manner as we spoke. As is often the case, the person moving out seemed the most charismatic of the bunch. I quite liked the room, the lounge and the kitchen, but the people freaked me out a little. It’s a nice place, but they were weird, so no.


Sandy Lane

I was looking forward to this viewing above all of the others because the texts to arrange it had been the best. As with Oswald Road yesterday, I felt a bit of a drop in my stomach as I got to the house - the front door reminded me of houses on the Kingsway in Wellingborough, and there were single glazed sash windows. “Keep an open mind Dave, don’t judge it yet.” One lad is moving out, leaving three girls and a guy there, all of whom seem really sound. Mike is a recruitment consultant, Una is newly qualified nurse, and Heather is a PA for an urban developer. As they described the sort of things they got up to routinely – mocking Heather for her Bolton accent, drinking wine in the house, having a weekly house meal – I found myself seeing a happy parallel with the first year of Parsonage Road.

The house itself was rough around the edges, but nice enough. The lounge was a bit scruffy, a bit small, but very welcoming, very lived-in. The kitchen was similar, cosy, used, and friendly. There was a nice long garden, and a dining table by the back door. The bathrooms were set up like some kind of freaky optical illusion, adjacent to one another, and sort of mirrored in their layout. If you put the bridge of your nose on the frame where both doors met, and sort of crossed your eyes, they seemed to merge into one. I know because I did it. I’m sure it made the right impression. “The landlord is refurbishing it, bit by bit,” said Heather. The room was – and I know this is unfair – a bit of a state because the guy was moving his stuff out there and then. I was rather disturbed to see three single pints of semi skimmed milk on his bed, just sitting there. Weird. The room was quite dark too, and not as big as I’d seen elsewhere. It was the final blow.

While the people were really nice, to go into a Parsonage II would be a backwards step. While the shared areas were nice, I didn’t like the room. No, no, no.


I called Ben of Whalley Ave and let him know I definitely wanted the room there. I’ve arranged to meet Becky, the housemate who’s staying, on Wednesday, and then to sign the contract with Ben afterwards. M21 here I come.