Category Archives: London

Surprise buttsex

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Today’s been a very angry day. In fact I can’t even recall the last time I was this angry. Dealing with the real estate agency has been horrible. They have been screwing us right between the buttcrack so hard that I’m starting to enjoy it. I stopped clenching and just bent over even more and gave in. Now I know what rape feels like.

surprise_buttsex

Sorry about the above mental picture. I believe I owe you dinner first before going down that road.

Here’s what happened. I and my housemate agreed to rent a 3 bed flat in Central London. The flat is da bomb. It is in a fantastic location and we love it. However, we ran into a few complications with the agency.

Our initial plan was to rent with a couple i.e. four people in the flat. We told this to the agent at our very first viewing and said that we haven’t yet found the new potential tenants. We were told that this is no problem and that we can do that. We agreed to make an offer for the property based on that.

The following day the agent (Blond Bimbo) called me again and said that we need to increase our offer (for the weekly rent) to make sure the landlord accepts it. So in order to sweeten the deal I reluctantly agreed to increase it by £10 pw… i.e. circa £43 pcm.

The next day the Old Hag (Blond Bimbo’s manager) called me and said that if we have a couple as tenants we would have to apply for some license because of health and safety reasons and that the landlord wanted to increase the rent by a further £40 pw i.e. £173 pcm because of extra “wear and tear”… so just like that the rent had increased by £216 pcm. I was told the license would cost about £500 as well. I immediately said we can’t afford that and asked what if we had just one person instead of a couple. She said that she’d get back to me and on a later phone call said that the rent would stay the same i.e. the plus £10 pw amount. That was acceptable I thought as this would also save the £500 license cost.

Our holding deposit of two weeks’ rent was taken and the referencing process began. I already wrote about that in my previous post – it was a nightmare as well.

We were still looking for a tenant and found a potential one but were not able to have a viewing because the landlord had the property rented out on AirBnB. We had to wait for more than a week to get that viewing (which was on 29th March – only two days before our move in date). They wanted us to sign the contract and pay way before we had the viewing in order to “close the file” and make sure we can move in on the 1st April.

The agency was charging us a £180 admin charge for the contract. I specifically emailed them to ask if there’s going to be another admin charge if we add a third tenant. It did not make sense to me to pay £180 now and then another £180 again the following week. Blond Bimbo’s email response asked me to call her to discuss this. So I did and she said that there will be no admin fee for adding the third tenant because they’ve always known we were adding another person. Following that I signed the contract and paid the agency all the fees, rent and deposit. This £180 fee is the key reason for my anger.

A week later, we managed to get a viewing for the new potential tenant (Amazon). She was very pleased with the flat and agreed to rent it with us. Things were looking good. Blond Bimbo took Amazon back to the agency’s office to scan her passport and take the referencing fee of £60. At least that’s what me and Amazon thought would happen.

Amazon said that when she went to the office with Blond Bimbo to pay and scan her passport, one of Blond Bimbo’s colleagues said that “you shouldn’t take that payment, what if it doesn’t work out and she can’t move in”. The license issue was news to Miss Bimbo as well and they didn’t take any payment from Amazon.

It was raining outside and Romario was on his bike – as you do when you’re Dutch. We decided to wait until the rain stops before heading back home after the flat viewing. That’s when Romario got a call from Old Hag regarding the license. She said that we need a license to have a third tenant. I spoke to Old Hag as well as we previously talked about this issue and that this would only apply if there were 4 tenants. She mumbled some crap and said that this was not the case and that a license was definitely needed for 3 people as well.

This was very bad news. We went home and were proper panicking. We discussed all kinds of scenarios about what we can do because we could not cover the rent between the two of us. We definitely needed another tenant to afford the place.

We sent a long email to the agency detailing our disappointment and concerns about the whole situation. However, we asked them to resolve this situation in a fair way and wanted to work together in the future.

We had a read through our contract again and found out about a massive exit penalty – almost £4,000. We were effectively in a position where we couldn’t afford to cancel or stay in the contract. That’s when we started to feel proper screwed.

The next day we received a response email from Old Hag which was very apologetic and said that they were not trying to hide any information from us on purpose etc. It was all bullshit. Later we got confirmation from them that the third tenant could move in if we applied for the House in Multiple Occupation (HMO) license.

We decided that the least bad option for us was to pay for the license (it cost circa £600) and hope for the best. We are very broke right now. Please send me money.

Amazon went to the agency yesterday to get the ball rolling and then she was asked to pay they wanted to take the second £180 admin fee from her as well, along with the £60 referencing fee.

She called me and was very upset about it. I then called Old Hag and was proper angry with them because this is something I specifically discussed with Blond Bimbo previously. Old Hag said there’s no way we can avoid that fee. Amazon decided to walk away from this shitty agency and we fully support her decision. Sadly we are locked into the contract and can’t do the same.

That second admin fee was the last drop. We have been lied to so many times and the agency keeps changing their story and has introduced new hidden fees on multiple occasions. All the agency fees add up to almost £1,300 but should’ve been £504 following our very first meeting.

We have decided that we will only communicate with them in writing. I do not believe a word they say.

It is also possible that the property already has the license and they are trying to pass the cost on to us. I’ve asked them to provide proof that they applied for the license (we want to see receipts, applications etc) and that it indeed cost what they said it would. Same thing for the “inventory check” for which they charged us as well.

It’s been such a horrid day. The only good thing is that it can’t get any worse, right?

Ivar

I move again

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I’ve been sick for the last two weeks – ebola, bubonic plague mixed with the common flu – no biggie. It’s the sickest I’ve been in at least 5 years. At one point (or… uhm… many points) I even considered seeing a doctor – what a novel idea. However, my pride got in the way. I haven’t been to a doctor in many years and I ain’t going to no doctor now.

The other minor complication was that I don’t have a GP (general practitioner) here in the UK. I’ve never bothered to register with a surgery. I once tried to get it done… back when I was still living in Chelmsford. Unfortunately it didn’t get anywhere because they asked me for proof of address, which I didn’t have as I don’t pay any bills (my bills were always included in my rent). Also, at that time I had moved recently and the address on my bank statement was incorrect – I even went to an HSBC branch to get this sorted – but they didn’t want to co-operate and sent me home. They said I need to wait until the end of the month to get a new statement with the correct address in the post. And that’s the story how I almost got a GP. Why can’t this be easy? England is like that – ridiculously stupid, full of red tape and regulation.

One other thing: I’m moving house again. The landlady is moving in and everybody needs to move out by the 4th April. My ebola was pretty bad and I managed to outsource the majority of the flathunting responsibility to my housemate Romario.

Believe me, flathunting when sick is a very miserable experience. For example I went to one address and I was there at 6:15 PM – bang on the money. Romario was nowhere to be seen and my battery ran out on my phone. I wasn’t going to wait around in the cold hoping for Romario to show up, so I went home and proceeded with coughing my lungs out. Later my housemate said that the flat wasn’t that great.

Another day, we had a second viewing. Well… “had” is a strong word. This time the two of us were outside the building waiting but the real estate agent didn’t even bother to show up. Romario called him and demanded justice, but the fucker didn’t care and said he can’t make it. Real estate agents are scum.

Luckily we had a second viewing that day. This viewing was for me really as Romario already checked that flat out a bit earlier. The new place was amazing and we decided to rent it. It’s right between the Holborn and Chancery Lane tube stations i.e. only 950 meters from where I work.

Later that day I got home and my ebola took on a turn for the worse. I had a massive fever and I was very cold. I ran a hot bath and stayed in it until the skin on my fingers got all wrinkly and gross. Then I put on 3 pairs of trousers and 6 layers of T-shirts and sweaters because I was still cold. I tried to get some sleep under my duvet but that proved to be difficult because of a massive headache.

It’s a strange sensation to be cold and shivering with so many clothes on… I survived and now (about a week later) I’m a lot better – I think I’ll even go for a run tomorrow.

Coming back to the flat. Our real estate agent told us a bunch of lies about the property i.e. “the council tax here is one of the lowest in London” and that we could have four people in that three-bed apartment no problem.

The next day the agency called me and tried to increase the rent and they were successful. I foolishly agreed to a slightly higher price to make sure we got the flat. Agents are full of shit and will tell you anything to get more money out of you. Later on they tried to get even more money out of us (i.e. a 10% increase if there’s 4 people in the flat because of more “wear and tear”). We would also need to apply for some kind of license (which costs £500 or so) as three tenants is the maximum in that flat because of some “health and safety” regulation. None of this was mentioned to us when we first saw the property.

Later on we had to get our references done by a third company. This was such a headache – I had to send bank statements, payslips, proof of my savings etc. Then it turned out one of my bank statements wasn’t up to their standards because it didn’t show a salary being paid into my account (this is because my statements are generated on the 24th each month but I get paid on the 26th). In addition I had to sign stuff and scan and email to my company’s HR team and to the agency and the whole process made me feel like a criminal. To add insult to injury, I’m the one who’s paying for this referencing “service”. It was such a bad experience that at one point I didn’t even care whether I pass the referencing credit and whatever other checks they did. I just wanted this ordeal to end.

I sent an angry email to the referencing company and after that they became much more civil. The whole thing was stupid, unnecessary, unpleasant and a proper pain in the ass but we got there in the end.

MyButtHurts

We’ve signed the contract, paid a ton of money for one month’s rent and 6 weeks deposit and various agency fees. It feels wrong to pay more than £6.5K and receive nothing in return – all we have is a contract which is only signed by me and Romario at this time.

I hope it all turns out well. We are still looking for a third tenant as Pilar will not join us – she’s moving to Spain in May and will stay at a friend’s place in between I think. Anywho, we’ve had plenty of interest in the room we advertised on Spareroom and tomorrow will probably have a new housemate sorted out.

I’m not sure if I mentioned previously but I was supposed to run a half marathon race in Silverstone (it’s a bit north west from London) about two weeks ago. I didn’t because of my ebola. I haven’t done any running in the last two weeks and now I have less than four weeks to train for the London marathon. Things are not looking good.

On the bright side, I won’t be homeless going forward. We will move to the new place on the 1st April. I’m really looking forward to it as I’m confident in the new flat I won’t feel rain droplets falling on me through the bedroom window when the weather gets nasty outside.

I hope you had a good Easter holiday,

Ivar the Salacious

Boris bikes, India and unicorns

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Did you know that you can slide down the handrail at the Piccadilly Circus underground station? It’s only possible in the late evening, say 11PM or later because there’s less people and one of the escalators stops – that’s the one where you can slide down the handrail. And then you can do it all again because you’ve got two of those escalators until you get down under.

A bit earlier that day it was another late night at work. I finished (I’m lying, I didn’t finish anything, I just gave up on the day) and left. I knew I would be late for my zouk class, so instead of walking I should figure out a quicker way to get back home. Then I thought it will probably be faster if I took one of those Santander or ‘Boris Bikes’ nicknamed after London’s mayor Boris Johnson.

There was only one bike left at the rack/docking station, so I figured it must be my lucky day. I went to the machine (which looks more or less like a parking meter if you have no clue what I’m talking about) to book/rent my bike. This was the first time renting one of these babies, so it took me a while until I got the release code.

In the truest meaning of carpe diem another Londoner thought the same thing. However, I think he was a member of the Santander bike thing, which gave him a key of sorts or maybe he already had a release code (I’m not sure how all this works). Basically, he didn’t need to rent the bike from the machine. Instead he could unlock it himself with his key. Since it was the last bike in the rack I only saw his back riding away at the moment I got my release code, which by the way was valid for 10 minutes and only for bikes from this rack. FML!

I’ve been trying to muster the courage to make this happen for months and then I finally go for it, the bike rides away without me. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.

My spirits were quite low. I think I need some professional help to turn this all around. Luckily my housemates are both armchair psychologists. I’ll ask them to help me through this very late childhood trauma.

Speaking of my housemates… we went to India the other day. I remember like it was last Saturday. I woke up a little later than usual – around 2 PM – and went downstairs to make myself some breakfast. Then Pilar had an idea and we all decided to go to have a late lunch or dinner ‘somewhere nice’ instead. It took ages to decide on a restaurant and then, once we found one, it was closed at the time.

So we went to a place Romario was familiar with. It was a 40 minute tube ride away in East Ham – the moment I came out of the station I felt like I was overseas. Everyone I saw was Indian. The only thing missing was the melting heat and chaotic driving which I would associate with that part of the world.

Anywho, we got to the restaurant. I can’t remember its name but it sounded like Abubu Khapapapi.  This was a proper Indian establishment – none of that watered down stuff they feed Westeners in central London. Everything was cheap as well, so I ordered a bunch of stuff as I wanted this to be as authentic as possible so whenever I saw the words ‘spicy’ in the menu I would order it (subject to it being vegan of course).

My food was spicy AF. I thought I could handle it but it was too much. Stuffing my face with dosas and curries, with tears in my eyes, wasn’t my best hour. However, Romario thought this was the funniest thing ever. Pilar gave up on the Indian train after a few bites and with a great amount of shame I must confess that I had to throw in the towel as well. The dinner was followed by our trio going to the pictures to see Tarantino’s movie The Hateful Eight – not his best, but worth watching.

unicorn

The next day I was at ZoukOff – a very cool monthly zouk event in London. Every party I’ve been to has been great. That’s where I saw Gerli. Well… technically we’ve met before but we never talked. I usually skip the small talk and go for a dance immediately. I’ve actually danced with her on a few occasions. Previously I thought that she was Norwegian – she looked very Scandinavian. We didn’t talk much because I was a bit shocked once I found out she’s from Estonia. But it was magical, just like seeing a unicorn.

Lots of love,

Ivar

Thinking about gettin’ some Pussy

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secret-santa

We did Secret Santa at work. The budget was £10 and I had to make a gift for Dan – I’ve never even spoken to him before. I was at a supermarket and spent at least an hour trying to figure out what to buy and then ended up with nothing. I was running out of time. Next day I managed to strike up a conversation with Dan. I didn’t get much useful information out of him, so decided to change my research methodology. I asked a different colleague whether he knew anything about my victim. Theo said Dan spends a lot of time on Tinder (it’s a dating app kids). I crunched some numbers and then it hit me – I had to get him some Pussy. That would be hilarious. However, then I started thinking about whether this was OK in the office, whether it’s acceptable and what if Dan gets offended or something. I scared myself out of this wonderful idea. Turns out I’m a pussy as well.

By the way Pussy is an energy drink – google it. I’ve never seen it on sale though, but I know it’s real.

pussyenergydrink

So I went for the safer option and got him a book.

Turns out I’m an idiot as well. I didn’t know how Secret Santa works because I added a Christmas card to my gift which had “Best wishes, Ivar” in it. Did you know that the person receiving the present will not find out who he got her present from? I’ve always thought that it’s a secret up to the gift exchange. That’s when everybody finds out and before that it’s this big secret and all that. My colleagues found it hysterical that I managed to get this wrong. Leanne almost fell off her chair laughing about it.

You live and you learn.

 

We also had our company Christmas Party that day. A venue on Farringdon road was booked for us. In the beginning everybody was just talking and drinking. As the night progressed some people started dancing and then one girl pulled me in to join them on the dance floor. It felt quite weird to do that night club kind of dancing because I’m so used to zouk/salsa/bachata. And what’s the deal with girls holding their drink and purse whilst dancing – that’s just wrong. The struggle was real though – I defaulted to some very basic partner dancing but it was quite bad as the girls had no clue what I was trying to lead. A few were alright with the basics of basics i.e. shifting their body weight from one side to the other and repeat. Especially Katie – she was there at the Vinopolis wine tasting thing as well… I think she just felt a bit more comfortable because she knew who I was.

I stayed until the very end. It was entertaining to watch the men get sleazier and sleazier, gradually but surely. Oh, I feel so bad for you girls.

The party was good, much better than I anticipated. I would prefer my usual dancing parties, but hey, sometimes you need to mix things up a bit.

 

Merry Christmas!

Ivar

The sister I never had

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I could tell the plane had landed 10 minutes earlier than expected (according to the display). The display showed a plane from Rome landed before the one from Riga. I noticed the people coming through the international arrivals gate were speaking in Italian and therefore I knew my waiting time was about to end.
I was at Stansted airport waiting for Maris – my half-sister. The last time I saw her was at the funeral. Back then I didn’t really talk to her. Prior to that I think it’s been about 10 years since I’ve seen her. So, as you might guess, I do not know that side of the family tree that well.
She is considering blessing the academic world with her presence at a British academic establishment. Two interviews were planned for Monday, however Sunday was wide open to do some sight-seeing in London. That’s where I come in.

LondonI put together a highly sophisticated agenda for the day with fun packed activities such as:

  1. taking the circle line from Liverpool Street towards Tower Hill, then realizing that Aldgate was the final stop, then tubing back to Liverpool Street station and then another go on the circle line towards Tower Hill.
  2. Looking for whales and dolphins in the river Thames from Tower Bridge; spoiler alert – we didn’t see any.
  3. Checking out (from a very safe and financially neutral distance) all the cool places the Queen lives in, such as the London Tower, the Shard, the Walkie-Talkie, the Gherkin, Big Ben, the building I work in and the Buckingham Palace.
  4. Witty banter about all things London.
  5. Thames water taste-testing. I wanted to know if the water was salty or not but ultimately decided against touching and tasting that brownish-gray liquid in fear of contracting Ebola.
  6. Checking out a few buskers and scoring some massive highscores in the make-no-eye-contact-with-beggars or charity fundraisers game.
  7. Meeting Mr Squirrel and his birds – Swans, Coots and Moorhen – at St James’ Park.
  8. Seeing a corded phone in one of those red phone booths.
  9. Locating platform 9¾ at King’s Cross station.
  10. Enjoying an authentic British day with no lack of clouds, plenty of wind and a touch of rain.

I saw a lot of myself in Maris. It was clear that academics were the top priority for her at this time. However, as I’m nine years older and therefore nine times wiser, I cautioned her that there’s more to life. Traveling, living in foreign countries, starting a business, learning to dance or play an instrument etc – each teach valuable life skills which no university will ever come close to.

Maris, I wish you all the best. You’ve got a bright future ahead.
Ivar

Aaaaaannnd… it didn’t work

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did not work
I was not the chosen one. Jamie (the guy from my first choice rental) did not get back with any positive news. So, I had to find an alternative home very quickly. Another viewing later that day and since it was immediately available I decided to go for it. This place isn’t quite ideal (only available for 4 months) but it ticked so many of my boxes. The thing was, these guys wanted two months’ rent and a deposit – almost £2,000 in advance without a contract or anything. I figured I can trust them and coughed up the money.
As you can see, I have learned nothing from my past. Or maybe the lesson is that sometimes you get screwed, but that doesn’t mean that you should lose faith in absolutely everyone.
By the way the pigs sent me an email regarding my fraud report to get my holding deposit back from the previous new “fake home”. The message was along the lines of “we have received an unusually large amount of similar complaints/reports but will aim to respond within 28 days”. I will be very surprised if their final response is anything different from “we will continue to monitor the situation”.

 

About mah new crib

The good: the other co-habitants are about my age and seem to be very friendly. Pilar is from Spain and she’s a consultant of sorts, so is Romario (Dutch). Big plus, Romario is vegetarian – it’s so much easier to live with like-minded people. Plus we’re all non-British and therefore we can relate to our daily “struggles”. The location is very good, very close to Angel station – only an extra 8-10 minute walk to work from my previous home, but I can manage that. It’s closer to the supermarket and a farmer’s market is very close by as well.

The bad: The place has a very small kitchen – only room for one person. It’s tiny.

I’ve only been here a few days but I like it. I’ve noticed that Pilar talks a lot, in general. She’s always on the phone or on Skype. I will need to get used to this. Otherwise she’s funny.

I’m sorry to disappoint that I didn’t end up homeless and that you’re not reading about how I spent a weekend with my fellow dumpster-divers. Maybe in 4 months’ time. Stay tuned!

Ivar

This might not work

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I just got a text from the agent who showed me the allegedly available room. He said ‘it’s all sorted’ and I’ll get my money back in a week’s time. I don’t believe him. It takes a minute to make the online bank transfer, why do they need a week to do it? Besides I already lodged a fraud report to ActionFraud about these scammers. Even though I think the police won’t do anything, I figured I should still try. What can I say, I’m a hopeless optimist.

I’ve seen six  properties so far whilst looking for a new home. Here’s what it’s like to live a day in my shoes:

The first property was next to the canal and in a very quiet area. The ad said the landlord had two rules about the property, but he would tell me what they are face to face. So I met with Mahmood – a bearded man, vertically challenged, looked a lot like the Amish people. Anywho, he gave me the house tour (the house was beautiful). So far so good… until Mahmood decided to fill me in on the house rules. He said he’s an Asian muslim and has two rules. Number one – no guests can come to the property. Number two – I can’t consume any pig or alcohol in the property. Two rules became many very quickly. I wasn’t allowed to bring any drugs to his home, I could only use the washing machine once per week etc. Yeah, he actually lectured me about drugs over there. I was fine with the “no eating pig” rule but I can’t see myself living a single day without having prostitutes over and doing a line of coke and washing it down with some vodka whilst waiting for my washing to finish. No deal.

The second property was the scam one.

I had three viewings yesterday and I really liked the first one. It was very close to where I already live, near Exmouth Market and I got along really well with the tenants. I think I’d fit in well.

The second viewing was just 10 minutes down the road. I got there and I saw one guy in front of the main door waiting. He was competition. Both of us walked into the flat and were greeted by another five competitors. The place was crowded as hell. One guy showed us the flat and then said the current tenants would like to have a chat with each one of us to see if we’re a good fit. They proceeded to chat with each would-be-tenant individually and asked the other six competitors to wait outside in the hallway. I thought this was ridiculous. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a better example of inconsiderate behavior. Wow… you can’t treat people like that. I just walked away.

The third flat was a bit further away in Fitzrovia – very close to the BT tower near Regent’s Park. Maria gave me the house tour and everything seemed OK. I wanted to have a chat with the other tenants – Paula and John. They were all so young – early twenties. John had this Harry Potter look going for him. I thought it was funny. Paula was very small, young and shy. I didn’t quite connect with the younger crowd and it felt like they wanted me to leave. For example: every time Maria asked “do you have any other questions,” the tone of her voice translated to “just fucking leave already”. My attempts to turn the situation around failed miserably – my questions about their hobbies, interests, work and study resulted in one word or short sentence replies. I became rather uncomfortable and gave up on the younger generation. As I walked back home I pondered about what had happened, whether I looked weird, smelled bad or what was the case?

Today I only had one viewing. The flat wasn’t anything fancy. In fact it was a dump by anyone’s standards – a lot like the place I live in right now… so it felt like home already. However, the dump part on its own is not a deal breaker – I’m a simple man, fancy doesn’t do much for me. I only met one of the tenants – Lauren, she seemed lovely. My biggest critique was that the flat did not have a living room (the available room used to be a living room a long time ago). However the place was cheap as chips and had two balconies. I love a good bargain and I think I could pimp my crib quite a bit if I moved in (get a TV, a carpet, nice curtains… you know turn myself into an interior designer for a day or two).

At this point I think I liked the Exmouth Market flat best and today’s flat would be my second choice. I remember Jamie (the guy from Exmouth Market) saying that they were going to continue showing the place to people until Friday and then make their decision.

So, the question is: do I gamble or do I not? If I say yes to Jamie and wait for him to get back to me on Friday, the second property (the cheapo place) might be gone by that time. If I go for the cheapo option I will make sure that I don’t get my number one choice. Decisions, decisions…

Then I remembered something I read from Seth Godin’s blog. He basically said that anything worth doing might not work. Who am I to argue with that golden nugget?
This-Might-Not-Work
I decided to gamble.

I contacted Jamie (the guy from Exmouth Market) and left a voicemail and a text to let him know I want to rent the place. Stay tuned!

Ivar the soon to be homeless gambler

Letting go

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I got a call from a new number at 4 PM. I was at work, so I didn’t pick up. Then had another call, followed by another missed call. I had a very good idea who it was. I figured I’d call back after work and give those fuckers hell; no need to cause a scene at work.

As I crossed the main street to go towards Leather Lane, one of those charity fundraisers stopped me in my tracks. She was from The Red Cross and wanted money. They always want money.  Money, money, money. More, more, more. She did the usual sales pitch about people in crisis and refugees and hunger etc. I didn’t want to come across as a monster, so I signed up for a monthly direct debit donation. While she was talking I was thinking “Dude, I just want to go home, how much is this going to cost me….” I’m sure you can relate to that feeling. I’m going to cancel the direct debit. The whole exercise was a complete waste of time for all parties involved. Why do I care so much about whether a complete stranger on the streets of London thinks I’m a monster or not? I’ve been taught to lie and smile and pretend. Thank you society! Thank you for making me feel like a piece of shit.

After that obstacle I moved on to call the agency. Camilla picked up and asked me how I was. I told her “not good, not good at all” and continued to tell them what I thought about their “service” or to be more accurate lack of it. It actually felt really good.

A week before I met with a real estate agent to rent a room and gave him £200 as a holding deposit. He gave me a proper receipt and we parted our ways. Things got very quiet afterwards, I called/texted to check if all was OK to move in and asked about what times can we meet to sign the contract etc. All I got was a text saying something along the lines of “they will call you, all OK”. (BTW I’m moving out because my current landlord sold the flat I live in.) On the very day I was supposed to move in, that’s when Camilla tried calling me at work. I was quite unhappy with the poor communication and already decided that I don’t want anything to do with them. However, the moment she said the room was unavailable because of a “double-booking”, I got very angry with them. Such incompetence. I demanded a refund and she actually said that the holding deposit is non-refundable. I told her the very purpose of the holding deposit was to reserve the room for me which is exactly the opposite of what they did. This was ridiculous and I threatened them with legal action (this was an obvious bluff, solicitors are super expensive). After some arguing she said, they’ll refund it and I need to email them a copy of the receipt and  my bank details. I did that but haven’t received anything back yet. Not exactly holding my breath here either. I don’t think there’s anything else I can do here.

I know the police won’t do anything because almost two years ago I was in a very similar position and the pigs didn’t do anything back then except send me an email saying they’ll be monitoring the situation or something. Makes you think… crime does pay after all.

My complaint to the travel agency never got anywhere either (they cancelled one of my flights back in August and didn’t refund me). The agency never responded and since they weren’t part of a proper union/group or whatever you call it, there was no ombudsman to refer my complaint to. Legal action will cost me more than the claim/damage is worth.

So I gotta let it slide, again. Let it go and let the bastards win.

on-letting-go

I’ve got about ten days to find a new home, I’m confident I’ll find something but all this is much more stressful than it needs to be.

Happy thanksgiving,

Ivar

The adventures of a wine connoisseur

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‘I don’t like reds’ I told Katie and then had another sip of my fancy drink. The second time was no better.

I think it’s called the law of diminishing returns. It’s the idea that each added unit of a good will produce less utility than the previous one. In plain English it means that the first £100 are amazing and mean that you won’t starve today but if you’re raking in £100,000 then another £100 means nothing to you.

However, the opposite is true when it comes to alcohol. It gets better and better the more you consume it. That wasn’t the case with the reds. And I tried a couple of them. I went to Georgia, Turkey, Chili, New Zealand, Argentina etc. They were all awful.

At Vinopolis they have this app you can use to figure out what your taste profile is. The bro-science behind it suggests that my preference for flavors is “Rich and Rounded”. Naturally, I put that hypothesis to the test and quickly found myself in front of the rich and rounded wines.

Just like that hot blond girl taught us, I figured I need to do my wine-tasting properly. So I did the stirring, the smelling, the evil eye and the slurping. I think I was quite good at the evil eye – a natural one might say. For the ones who don’t know that’s when you look at the wine in the glass and pretend to look for a hidden treasure, once you find it, you do an “aha” face and drink that shiraz like a pro. It was quite entertaining really.

The thing I sucked at was slurping. Bits of wine managed to travel down my throat whilst I was looking stupid and then suppressing the cough-reflex. Not my cup of tea. It looks easy but it takes many years of practice to perfect.

Germany. I love Germany. The wines which used Gewürztraminer (Roter Traminer) grapes were amazing! This shouldn’t be a surprise though because the Germans know their beer. They also know how to make some proper wine. The game changer here was color as well. The whites were so much better.

Don’t get me wrong, some of the white wines were just as rubbish as the reds. My favourite is the Paulinshof, Brauneberger Juffer Riesling Kabinett 2014.

Paulinshof

Clearly because 2014 was a good year and the vintage was wicked.

BroTip. They had a bunch of staff there as well who were keen to answer any questions and suggest wines for us to try. Every now and then they’d walk up to you with one or two wine bottles and ask you if you’ve tried these. You of course need to say ‘no, but I’d love to’, to maximize the amount of fancy wine per hour ratio. It was amazing!

The advisers were keen on popping some corks (there was five of us altogether). So we finished with the wines and decided to hit the champagne bar. We were a bit tipsy already and the champagne did its magic from zero to sixty in three point five. We had such a good time!

By the way Vinopolis is closing down some time in December this year. Rumor says they will have fancy wine at massive discounts towards the end of the year. Go check it out.

A kid gets stabbed, dies and I make a puppet Hitler, how was your weekend?

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I did not know what I signed up for. Things were so slow to start… and there I was – worried I’d be late.

I was late, but that’s not the point because lateness was figured into the starting time of the workshop. So I guess I did the rational thing? Maximizing my utility like a pro (my fellow folks of supply and demand will understand).

There was a time I used to take pride in the fact that I’m always punctual and never too early nor late to anything. That’s  changed. I blame Australia, I blame the tube, my naïve optimism and everyone else except me.

It’s been almost two years in the UK and I should know better. The tube is a slow rat-infested antiquated form of transportation. If I only knew how to take a bus my life would be so much better.

I followed the other kids and last Sunday was the first time I took a bus in London over the last 2 years. I’ve successfully avoided it like the plague. Mostly because of my fear of getting lost, raped and murdered in London (not necessarily in that order).

Speaking of murder, one kid was stabbed not too far from where I live. It was in the news and everything. Some kid wanted to steal the other kid’s bike. Stabbed him and the cyclist died about 15 minutes later. Helmets don’t make cycling any safer after all. Welcome to London!

We were stretching and patting/petting/massaging our muscles. I was definitely weirded out, but hey I paid for the class and had to get my money’s worth (also a thing which has changed over the years). It was a workshop about improvising in dance. I struggled through some of the things because I’m a very shy and reserved person. One could even say cultural. All what’s missing is a monocle and a top-hat.

After a while the class got better, much better. Maybe that’s just me as it takes me a while to warm up to pretty much anything… but I admit parts of the class were fun. In one exercise I was the puppet-master and guided my puppet (other person) into the classic Hitler pose – one arm in the “Heil Hitler” position and the other one making a mustache. I crack myself up.

Oh… what’s the deal with stretching? I’ve done a bit of homework and found out that stretching does fuck all. It doesn’t make you any less likely to injure yourself or on the other hand it also doesn’t cause injury (it does NOTHING). Also, being flexible is a useless superpower – nobody will give you a medal if you can put your leg behind your head. I think it’s one of those things people invented to look busy when they actually aren’t. No different from checking your phone when you’re in a room full of strangers and too chicken to talk to anybody.

I learned a few new things and put them to the test a few hours later – there was a zouk party a bunch of us went to afterwards. I think the dancing got much more interesting and creative with the improvised elements in it. The party was a good way to end the week.

I hope you had a good day and that nobody got stabbed.

Hugs and kisses,

Ivar

contact improvisation (1)