Thanks to the internet, you can pretty much find the exact answer you want to see for any given query on any given search. Even on the occasions when you know that deep down you’re clutching at straws.
You bypass all the “legitimate” websites and instead settle on the answer you found in the depths of an amateur ‘Psychology Love Today’ forum because they give the more unlikely opinion of why they’re ignoring your messages. “They probably really like you but they’re just scared of rejection”.
But however much we all know that the above answer is much more unlikely compared to the Cosmopolitan’s (that’s legitimate enough) “Get over it, they don’t like you” answer, it is far easier to lap up information on the internet we would rather believe to be true. Particularly since the internet will inevitably give you a case for either side of the coin – you’ve either got a brain tumour or you just wore your hair too tightly that day. My naivety knows what side to believe on that coin, she says fixing her bun.
After having spent a tedious and unsuccessful six weeks house-share hunting, I decided that I would try and find a consoling answer to make me feel better about the fact I was living back with my mum again at the age of 25.
I’m pleased to say the internet delivered on the answer I wanted to hear, and from a legitimate page-one source on Google as well.
I now feel marginally more consoled that according to Aviva, I was merely part of the “half a million 25-34s that could live with parents in 10 years time if the 45% increase in house prices trend continues.”
It was a scary enough thought in itself having at the end of last year, to move back in to my mum’s house again and turning 25 only two weeks later. But since having read the above, it looks like I’m doing okay compared to those people who are nine years my senior.
Though to be honest with you, it probably wouldn’t take me too long to find some ‘Independent Success Daily’ page that told me at 25, I should already have my own three-bedroom flat and be managing director of my own 250-people firm.
They can do one.
In my defence, I didn’t actually choose to move back in with my mum and in many ways, I’m grateful that it meant I had considerably more time to find somewhere I really like and not settle for the one charging me a small fortune for a room I’m sure was housing slugs in the corner.
The only downside to having considerably more time, is that you leave yourself open to more house viewings. And more house viewings simply means having to invest in your own pocket thesaurus so you can source any other word that isn’t the word “nice”, to describe the under-stairs storage space they feel the need to include in the tour as if it’s some sort of selling point.
Unless I’m Harry Potter, I really don’t think this should be listed on SpareRoom as some bonus house feature on top of what is really just a £780 fee to blow on the kind of sized room you create for your dolls.
However, after almost 10 viewings and 20 plus miles running between all the house viewings over the 6 weeks, I’ve managed to find myself what I hope will be, an absolute gem of a place.
I’m close enough to the centre of Crouch End that I can practically taste the caffeine and poached eggs from the fashionably edgy brunch bars, but far enough away that I don’t get run over from another yummy mummy with a jeep-sized pram outside my front door. I’m living with three other guys who made me feel comfortable enough that we have already shared horror stories of what was my never-to-be-again Tinder experience and one of theirs I’ll-try-one-more-time Tinder experience. And I’m now in such a zone of London that I pretty much reduce my risk of death by bike by about two-thirds because I have only three zones to pass through as opposed to about 5,000.
I may be saying goodbye to any forward opportunities to ever save money again, but here’s to marking the start to a freegin’ great, new era.