It's ugly, huge, and cheap. The carpet isn't tacked down, paint has soaked into unprimed patches on the walls, the windows are tiny, the sink is sausage-colored porcelain, the lights are dim, the switch plates feature Mickey Mouse. It needs paint, new lino, lots of halogens, some fresh air. But there's a backyard we could plant tomatoes, peppers, and poppies in, there's a room for Tim's tools, and a room for my desk. There's a gas stove. There's a month of free rent to paint if we take it.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
When I went house-hunting with my parents as an eight year old, I hated it; it was boring, and seemed to embarrass my mum and dad. They had never bought a house and couldn't really afford to. How strange it felt to go out with Tim last night to meet up with a man we'd never seen to look at a basement suite that might be our home. I had to play the adult, asking about utilities, painting, the laundry facilities; proving we were responsible and wealthy enough to make our payments, lying about my age. I've never been apartment shopping for myself before, but I wasn't embarrassed. I was only choked at the challenge of making the suite cozy and livable.