Steve came to the house to look at the spare room. I'd met him before - I looked at a house he lived in on Albemarle Rd back in November - so I knew he was an actor, and a pleasant enough chap. He seemed to like the house, but thought the bed might be too tall for him. He sat downstairs and chatted to us for a bit.
"I get quite bad asthma, is there any damp in the house?"
I couldn't lie to a potential housemate. Ryan's morals forbade him similarly. We told him the truth. Steve explained that he couldn't live there, said his goodbyes, and left.
I texted our landlord, explaining what had happened. He replied almost immediately.
"But there's no damp in that room. Can you call him back and set him right please?"
Bullshit. I said so.
"It looks like damp to me. I'm not prepared to tell a potential housemate something that turns out not to be true, because if I'm going to live with them they need to trust me. Come and have a look?"
What a tool. Chatting with Becky, it turned out that the landlord had failed to keep all sorts of promises that he had made to the previous tenants. The shower. The living room. The damp. A death of a thousand cuts.
Even after four beers with Ryan, I felt enraged. Why am I giving my money to such a dickhead?
1 comment:
You didn't give me any money. I feel like you should give me money now, to justify your rage.
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