Another night, another set of potential homes.

Over the last five days, we’ve seen eighteen places.

One was lovely and big, but right on a main road.

Another was nice but too small.

One was OK but too far away from transport infrastructure (though close to a stately home and garden).

One was well-finished and in a great location, but too small.

Two were absolutely dire, and far too close to transport intrastructure - like, open your bedroom window and you could fall out onto the A4, or the district line.

Another was pretty good but with a strange layout - a bathroom with two doors, and no window in the kitchen.

Another was great, but not quite big enough, and a little on the dangerous side - the trade description act should take issue with the description of a roof terrace which is, in fact, merely a roof - with no railing or surrounding barrier, making the potential to tumble three floors during a pissed barbeque quite real.
One was potentially nice, but not potentially enough.

A couple were utterly nondescript.

One smelt like custard.

Another smelt like wicker furniture.

One was almost perfect, but with nowhere for me to keep my bike.

And one was perfect, but we didn’t get it, because the owner suddenly turned into a moneygrabbing twat.

To paraphrase Bono, we still haven’t found what we’re looking for - but we’re trying.

Four more tonight. A dozen on Saturday. I’m hopeful.