The trials of a rent boy

I’ve just moved flat. And whoever said that moving home is the second most stressful experience in life had it absolutely right.

I’m still getting ’Nam-style flashbacks from an epic tour of duty traipsing around London looking at flats. I have dreams about suffocating in bubble wrap.

The story begins at the end of last year, when my landlords told me they were sticking up the rent on the small flat where I’d lived for the last three years. In a rare burst of resolve, I decided to look for a new place, figuring that, even allowing for the cost of moving, I could still save money and, hopefully, find somewhere a bit smarter.

House-hunting seems kind of fun if you’ve got Phil and Kirstie holding your hand (or rather, Kirstie to hold your hand. I don’t want Phil to hold my hand, and anybody who says I do is a liar) but the truth is rather different to the telly. If porn is barely on first-name terms with real-life sex then property porn is blanking reality in the lift.

Looking round flats is a bit like a bad blind date, although at least you can bale out after five minutes with a cheery “I’ll get back to you”, rather than being forced to make desultory small talk over a Quattro Formaggi for a couple of hours.

The problem is, most flats in London are rubbish.

The first place I looked at resembled an Ikea version of Guantanamo Bay. It was perfectly nice. But small. One tiny room, with a futon, a shower room and a Fisher Price kitchenette in a corner. You could live quite happily there, but only if you renounced all possessions as theft and took all your books, clothes, DVDs and CDs to the Cancer Research shop.

It seems like the buy-to-let boom has prompted landlords to cram as many flats as possible into their properties. The rent hardly ever reflects the size of these places. Or the fact that many of them don’t have a washing machine, or expect you to share a toilet.

The next place I looked at turned out to be bigger and better, but here I encountered another of the traps laid for the unwary flat-hunter, namely the ridiculous fees.

The flat was unfurnished, but when I asked the letting agents how the fees broke down, they told me there’d be a £120 inventory charge. That’s £120 for someone to look around an empty flat and go “hmm, four walls and some windows” and write it down.

Unfortunately, Arena’s legal team have said I’m not allowed to call this practice “a complete rip-off”, but I can say that it immediately put me off the place.

It was at this point, with less than two weeks left in my old place, that I began to panic and fear the worst (flatsharing). But I decided to hold my nerve, and not just go for the next overpriced shoebox I looked at.

It paid off. It might be above a Thai restaurant and a bit draughty, but I knew as soon as I saw it that it was perfect for me. Packing up all my stuff and lugging boxes up the stairs was a nightmare, but it was worth it. My new flat is bigger than the old place, the rent’s the same and the landlord is friendly.

The fact is, there are some decent flats out there, you just have to look hard and keep looking. Don’t get fleeced, stick to your budget and don’t be afraid to haggle.

And once you’ve found the right place, don’t move again. Ever.