If you’ve ever tried to find a place to live in London, you’ll already be all too familiar with the absolute bin-fire that is the capital’s rental market. In fact, perhaps even reading the words “find a place to live” have triggered a fight or flight response, spiking your cortisol levels as you relive some of the most harrowing experiences of your adult life.
I still remember the time, 15 years ago, that I attended a group viewing for a grimy, tiny ex-council flat in Bermondsey, before being told by the cartoonishly evil estate agent that whoever made it back to the agency first to sign the agreement would get the tenancy. Cue me participating in a humiliating Wacky Races-style dash across town against six other women in their twenties. I may have won the flat that day, but I also lost my dignity.
