The Flat Hunt

Jorge had been living in London for two years when his landlord announced that he was selling the house. Jorge and his flatmate, Oliver, a quiet engineer from Norwich, had six weeks to find somewhere new. They made a list of what they wanted: two decent bedrooms, a kitchen big enough for two people, somewhere near a Tube station, and a rent of no more than two thousand pounds a month. "That's not much to ask," said Oliver. Jorge, who had already looked at the websites, said nothing.

They arranged to see five flats in one Saturday. The first was in Clapham. In the photos it looked bright and spacious, with a large living room and a view of the park. In reality, the living room was far smaller than it had looked, and the view of the park was only possible if you leaned out of the bathroom window. "The photos must have been taken with a very special lens," said Jorge. Oliver liked it anyway. "It's the closest to the station of all of them," he pointed out.

The second flat, in Brixton, was much bigger, but it was nowhere near as cheap as the advert had said. The agent explained that the price online did not include the bills, the service charge or something he called an administration fee, which seemed to be the most expensive part of all. "So it costs a lot more than two thousand," said Oliver. "Slightly more," said the agent. It was about six hundred pounds more.

By lunchtime they had seen three flats and they were starting to disagree about almost everything. Jorge cared more about light than about space. Oliver cared less about light than about the journey to work. Jorge wanted a bigger kitchen, because he cooked every evening. Oliver, who lived on toast and cereal, could not see why a kitchen needed to be any bigger than a cupboard. The third flat had very little light and not much space either, so at least they agreed on that one: it was the worst of the three.

Over a sandwich in a cafe, they tried to be sensible. "Let's be honest," said Oliver. "The more flats we see, the less we agree." Jorge laughed. "And the longer we look, the more expensive everything seems." They decided that each of them would choose the one thing that mattered most and forget about the rest. For Jorge, it was the kitchen. For Oliver, it was being less than fifteen minutes from a station.

The fourth flat was in Stockwell. It had a kitchen that was even smaller than the one in the first flat, and Jorge refused to go further than the hall. The fifth and last was in a narrow street in Kennington, and by the time they arrived it was getting dark and they were both tired and irritable. The agent was late. The front door was painted an ugly green. Neither of them had high hopes.

But inside, it was a surprise. The bedrooms were a little smaller than they wanted, and the bathroom was the oldest they had seen all day. However, the kitchen was the biggest of the five, with a window looking out over a tiny garden. And the station was eleven minutes away; Oliver timed it on his phone. The rent was nineteen hundred pounds, bills included, which made it the cheapest flat of the day, by far.

"What's the catch?" asked Oliver suspiciously. The agent shrugged. "The owner is an old lady who lives upstairs. She wants quiet tenants who don't have parties. And she'd like someone to help her with the garden." Jorge and Oliver looked at each other. Jorge had grown up helping his grandfather with his vegetable garden in Galicia. Oliver had never thrown a party in his life.

They signed the contract the following Monday. Six months later, the old lady upstairs, Mrs. Abbott, eats dinner with them every Thursday. Jorge cooks, Oliver washes up, and the tomatoes in the tiny garden are, according to Mrs. Abbott, the best in South London. The bathroom is still terrible. Neither of them minds as much as they expected.