I ended up living with a middle-aged woman because I couldn’t find a flat

It’s that time of year when everyone is desperately searching for a home. 

Unlike other people, I knew exactly who I wanted to live with and roughly had an idea of where I wanted to live.

Anywhere close enough to uni that I could roll out ten minutes before a lecture, and with people I didn’t savagely dislike.

Not much to ask.

I found the friends – all that was left was to find the house.

We waited eagerly for the housing list to come out, only for one of my housemates-to-be to tell me that he and his new boyfriend of two months had decided to get a “love nest”.

From then on things got worse as the rest of my housemates pulled out for one reason or another.

I tried to tag onto other groups of friends, but that failed. I was on my own.

Come August, when I finally decided to start looking with a new sense of determination, the houses were disgusting.

I went to one place which looked like it had housed several hungry human-sized piranhas.

There were holes in doors, ripped-up carpet, and holes in the sofa so big that springs showed through. There were also some dubious bikes in their bath.

It also stank, there was mould everywhere and to top it all off it was £300 a month.

I was so unimpressed that I sent the landlord an email. I wouldn’t even let an animal live in it because that would have been an insult to the animal.

In a fit of desperation I decided to live in a house with a lady whose children were away at university.

She seemed nice and relaxed, and the house was gorgeous.

I thought I’d hit the jackpot.

I was being on my best behaviour. But I soon found out that she really did have a problem. And it wasn’t me.

She was a clean freak.

Even my mum didn’t talk to me with the same condescending tone:

“Emma, do your parents own shares in the electricity business?”

“Um… no?”

“You left the light on!”

After three weeks of putting up with her sniping over my every move I was at the end of my tether.

I came home one evening to find that she had found hairs in the plug hole and put them in a jar as evidence of my lack of cleanliness.

I didn’t want to point out that by not using the shower, I would have been less clean.

That was the last straw. I was moving out.

I arranged it all with my landlady. I’d been looking forward to getting back to uni for so long, and she’d made the first few weeks of term agonising.

I moved out of that hell hole and into my current place, and I couldn’t have landed on my feet any better.

My landlady is a babe, I could not have found a nicer woman. She let me move in after only a day’s notice, and I have never been happier.

I am now the proud occupier of a large room, close to uni, with people I like, just as I’d always wanted.

I have no one nagging me if I leave a dish in the sink, and I can have as many showers as I like.

**No friendships were harmed in the search for my dream house**

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