The number of homes sold in September was 37% lower compared with the same month a year earlier, according to HM Revenue and Customs figures (Anthony Devlin/PA)
(Picture: PA Archive)When I moved out of my flat at the beginning of August I didn’t expect to spend the next two months sofa surfing. Naively, I expected to find somewhere new to live within a couple of weeks. I put everything I own into storage, packed a bag and downloaded SpareRoom.
I packed three pairs of trousers, a Tesco bag full of toiletries and nowhere near enough underwear. Fast forward nine weeks and I never want to see the contents of said suitcase ever again. I had well and truly exhausted every outfit combo and, at this point, was sneaking into my friend’s bedroom to steal her clothes. What’s more, when I packed my bag we were witnessing 38 degree heat waves… I was still wearing shorts and t-shirts until last week.
I soon learnt that the London rental dance is no waltz, it’s a high intensity tango that requires speed, power and passion. Interviewing for a room is cutthroat, and for those with low self esteem, it can knock your confidence in a similar way to being denied a second date.
Getting to the interview stage is hard enough. Even rooms that were being listed without any images would be snatched up within a matter of hours, and a lot of the time, tenants would end up persuading a friend to move in instead. Requirements of a prospective tenant always followed a similar suit: "We’re looking for a tidy 30-something-year-old professional who enjoys socialising over a glass of red but also keeps to themself. Must not work from home because Mike does… but also someone who isn’t out all the time. Must be active but must not cycle as there’s no room for a bike. Room is the size of a single bed and has no windows but is cosy and charming. £900 p/m plus bills. Property is owned by my parents who may return from Spain at any point and kick you out”.
My first few interviews were shut down because of my age. Or so I tell myself. "Come over and get to know us" they’d say, before launching into a rigorous 50 question interrogation. I became quickly aware of my lack of interests: "so, what are your hobbies?" they’d ask… um, sleeping? Wasting hours on TikTok? Romanticising my life with an overpriced coffee in Victoria Park? I even started making it up and promising myself I’d have to follow through with the lie if they picked me (figure skating here I come).
One particular interview was going swimmingly until the two 35-year-old women asked my age - once again I considered lying - but eventually confessed I was 24. Before I knew it I was unpacking my traumas to prove that life experiences had caused me to be wise beyond my years. In hindsight, I’m glad they were freaked out by it. I’d revealed far too much about myself ever to move in.
After a string of unsuccessful interviews and being made to feel like the worst person in the world to live with, a group of friends got kicked out of their place because the landlord decided to hike their rent. Another brutal blow for London renters. My friends were devastated. But their silver lining was welcoming an extra addition to their household: London’s worst roommate, me.
