Flat hunting ...

Flat hunting would be so much easier if I were Carrie Bradshaw. It would be all skipping along the sidewalks (pavements are so grey and well, British), couture swaying in the breeze, spring in my Jimmy Choo step. In reality flat hunting is a nightmare. And beautiful footwear is not an obligation, it merely slows you down. I simply can't bear to wear trainers for anything other than running and I can't quite make the dizzying heights of Carrie's Louboutins, so my Clarks wedges have proper taken a beating over the past few days. Not for nothing do they say that the three most stressful things you will do in life are getting married, having children, and moving house. Men get out of the second one (the lucky gits), so its a small wonder we out live them.

Back in the real world flat hunting assumes none of the New York connotations of girl in the city making it on her own, fist punching the air. For a start we're not in New York and this isn't Beaches. And don't I know it. Today I viewed a flat which could only be described as resembling the same aesthetic as a half-way house. There was wood chip wall paper and a scary looking, council house gas fire in the living room. Gawd I don't want to come off as a snob, because I'm not, but surely nobody willingly wants one of those honking, ugly beige things with the orange bars in their living room? Or have I missed something, is Only Fools and Horses chic in?

A familiar line in my house has been 'I'll kill myself if I have to live there!' We're of course being melodramatic and we love ourselves far too much for suicide, but you get my point. Over the past few days I've dodged grizzly, slobbery and jowly boxer dogs and been taken up stairwells that wouldn't be out of place in a gritty crime drama probably set in Glasgow. 'There's been a Murrdur' has become the jokey banter between my flatmate and I when we've deemed a building fit only for the habitation of vampires.