One does not simply find a flat in St Andrews

Four years. Three houses. Two deposits, battered and bruised, the wad of cash far thinner than I had remembered it at the end of the year. One set of threatening letters from the NHS demanding I come in for a cervical smear test, and could I please update my records, and if I don’t comply I will be struck from the register and they will never ask me about my cervix again.

Four years. Three houses. Two deposits. One angry red letter.

St Andrews, I am done with you.

There is a reason as to why I have a clutch of friends in fourth year who moved back into Sallies, skulking about the long tables in an undeniable parallel of Slytherin house, snarling and barking at the cheer and laughter of the younger years.

There is a reason as to why some have flown as far as the wilderness of Anstruther or Dundee, so tired are they of paying through the nose for a Soviet-styled granny flat (complete with pink curtains and suspicious stain on the lino floor).

The reason is thus: one does not simply … find a flat in St Andrews.

Let’s address the struggles, shall we?

1. Cost. We are currently paying exorbitant rates considering we live in a lively wee town in rural Scotland. Edinburgh rates. In some cases, heaven forbid, London rates. High demand means that landlords are happy to drive up rents, and only very few have signed onto a rent freeze initiative that our Union has been attempting to breathe life into. Now, to be fair, much of the struggle is centered in the St Andrean reticence to walk very far. “Badlands,” we murmur when glancing over the listings, KFB essentially transforming us into Samwise Gamgee, echoing his famous utterance: “If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.” Beyond distance there is the undeniable quiet code of social status indicated by post-code. There has been no greater indicator of the economic recession than bouncers installed at the doorways of Bell Street, their residents wanting a Hope Street lifestyle, but crippled by the soaring rents have had to make do (bless).

2. Housing lists. Two years ago, there was a line outside of the MDDC office waiting for the lists. They were there overnight. Sleeping bags and everything. This lead to a general outcry of injustice, and so I believe most of the lists are available electronically, and it’s up to you and your flatmate(s) to get onto google maps and hassle the address’ current occupants. I would suggest you source a Polish or German flat mate before you start, as I can attest through personal experience that they are just better at life than most other nations, and organize their flat hunting with a proficiency and skill that dazzles. But there just aren’t enough flats to go around, and then there are the:

3. Bastard real estate agents. Listen, they really are out to get you. Or rather, they’re out to get your deposit. I will avoid names as there have been multiple suits involving real estate agents and slander, but infer what you will. My new agent has thusfar been the most reliable and quickest to respond – being new they also have not thusfar learned the general attitude of Students Aren’t Real People which pervades many services throughout St Andrews. Before this I dealt with a company which was essentially the cast of the Mighty Boosh’s Nannageddon. Sweet, lovely ladies. Until they saw That Small Mark on The Living Carpet. Knitting needles out. Bank account empty. No food for a month.

4. Organising your friends. Because it’s not always down to the town and the landlords. Sometimes finding a flat in St Andrews is so difficult because suddenly that absolutely ridiculous friend of yours (the flakey fun one with the dilated pupils?) is far less fun to be around. Because the deadline for the application is in an hour. And he can’t find his references. Curiously, he continually can’t find his references until suddenly he can and now he’s in a six bedroom on Greyfriars and you’re here. Outside MDDC. Crying.

Now, I’m graduating. I do not have to face this fray anymore. The fight is yours. The upside of it all is: hello, 3 bedroom in Richmond. You no longer scare me.

By Jenna Al-Ansari, standpoint writer