Looking for a place to live is getting me down. It's hard to figure out what's suitable when I don't know where anything is or what it's like. I send message after message, I go see places that suck or the people don't want me. Wah!
I could have blogged about my first crazy story on Friday night, but I was too tired from getting in at 3, and it started to seem less funny (also, I just started to feel lazy about typing it). I went out with Terry and met some people, had a good time, almost failed to get home but just made the last train (also, why is the last train on the weekend not that late?!). When I got to the flat, I couldn't get into the second door. This flat has so many doors, so many bolts and keys, so many passwords and riddles, so many creepy dolls and mirrors on the stairs that I don't see why anyone who even managed to break in would think it was worth continuing with their quest. Every time I'm the last one in and I have to lock everything up completely all I can think about is how screwed we'd all be in a fire. There's no way anyone would get out alive. Even the window that would let you escape onto the roof below is locked. By the time you found the key in all that smoke, or threw the kettle into the glass to break it, you'd be dead. This is a certainty.
So...second door. Couldn't figure it out. It's 1:30 / 2ish in the morning on a Friday night. The roomies work in the morning, so they've been in bed awhile. I couldn't get my ipod or laptop to connect to the internet from inside the vestibule between the first and second doors, so I was forced to go around to the front (the entry to the flats is on the alley side). I stood under the windows for awhile. I sent messages and called with Skype. Poor Terry missed the last train back to Farnborough and was stuck in Waterloo the whole night, but my ipod cut off when I talked to him. Because of the night buses, it would have been possible to get around, but it would have taken forever, and you'd have to deal with drunk and crazy people. I eyed the bar across the street thinking, at least I'd have something to do for an hour-ish before I curl up to attempt sleep in the pitch black vestibule. But I didn't go, because I was told you had to pay to get in because it was a pub / nightclub after a certain hour. And people are always yelling and screaming around it. Little side note: Sunday nights are even worse than Friday and Saturday nights. I guess I'll hand it to these people who didn't give a crap about their Monday mornings and end every weekend with a bang.
Some guy passes me and asks for a light. Of course I don't have one. He comes back seconds later and invites me to the pub / nightclub. I considered the opportunity to not be completely bored for awhile longer, hoping it didn't close for until 3 or 3:30. I agreed, out of my stupid sense of adventure (I wasn't interested in him at all). To get to the point of why this story is somewhat funny, this guy ended up annoying the hell the out of me. I couldn't get rid of him. He was Irish, so he kept saying the Irish and Americans love each other. And other strange things. "Do these hands look like the hands of a businessman?" They did not. Part of a middle finger was missing, and I'm starting to wonder what's wrong with hands in general. Some people have beautiful hands. Not me (except my nails). Not this guy either, even if that bit of finger wasn't missing. "I hate the English!" O, that must be why we're at a place called The Claddagh Ring. Blah blah blah, the place closed at 2:30, which made my trip over there to find something to do for a little while longer pointless. I went back to my post to call / message the roomies. The drunk Irish kept saying he wasn't going to leave me by myself. I finally got so annoyed that I was looking forward to curling up into a ball on the dirty floor between the doors. So I went to do it, only this time I tried the second door again, and voila! It opened! I felt certain the universe had been messing with me so I could write a slightly more interesting blog.