Elvis Has Left the Building
When I relocated to Sydney, I moved in with my buddy Rafe, into an apartment we affectionately referred to as The Grotto. It was named thus because it's really quite old and run down, with stained carpets, marked walls, tatty curtains, a broken window held together with gaff tape and a kitchen floor that is literally falling apart. There are clumps of cat hair everywhere too, but that's probably Fatty's fault. Despite these drawbacks, it's in a good suburb, it's very convenient to my work, gym and the city, and it's quite cheap - well, for Sydney at least. It's also quite spacious for one person - with Rafe doing a runner to San Francisco I'm now master of a decent-sized bedroom, lounge, dining room, office and two balconies, as well as the requisite kitchen and bathroom. It's all pretty shabby, but it's quite a lot of space.
Naturally I've submitted a long list of fixes to the real estate people, but I'm not holding out a lot of hope for any of it to be addressed. The general rule is that real estate agents won't do squat unless the main supporting beam in the property has fallen from the roof and impaled the tenant, and they are fountaining arterial blood all over the expensive carpet. It would be nice to have things fixed, but I think I can deal with The Grotto for a few more months as it is, as long as I can arrange some vigorous cleaning (and perhaps perfuming). I'm quite looking forward to making a positive change to the place, although I might be deluding myself in thinking that I might ever transform it to actual niceness without sinking a bunch of money into it, which for a rental place is pretty stupid. Maybe I'll feel good enough taking it from a complete craphole all the way up to a partial craphole.
After those months, I'll probably find another place to rent, and trade some of my current abundance of space for something a little more modern and a little less crudworthy. Getting another flatmate into The Grotto probably won't work, because although there's plenty of space, the back room is triangular and would barely accomodate a single bed. Rafe had been using the dining room as his bedroom, but that's almost certainly not going to fly with a new flatmate. Besides, I'm getting too old and crotchety to be sharing my space with strangers. I have enough problems with my own dirty dishes and pubes in the plughole to be worrying about someone else's.