Dialogue: Last-minute search for instant domestic bliss

By ELIZABETH EASTHER

I'm not famous for planning, and like to leave things to the last minute. Consequently, I'm often running around doing things I could, and should, have done weeks ago.

Last weekend, the activity left too late was looking for a house. Impractical as ever, I was certain I would find the perfect place in one day because, for the next three months, I have to be at work every morning at seven.

I know, it's not an impossible time but, when I add to the working day the business of biking to the ferry, taking the ferry and biking to work, it isn't a pretty proposition.

There are few things more annoying than frantically pedalling through Devonport only to see the 6:30 ferry steaming off without me. Hence, the increasingly obsessive nature of my quest.

I thought it would be simple. Cruising the classifieds and surfing the net, I had intended to spend the better parts of Saturday and Sunday reading between the lines. I was not expecting it to be fun exactly but still, I didn't think it would be as fraught and fruitless as it was.

I started looking with the idea of sharing with a friend. We had decided to take the high road - inner-city living. Get some apartment action for a while.

I should have guessed we had a challenge on our hands when the first potential landlord I called asked if there was a housing shortage.

Apparently, she had had more calls than she knew what to do with. Lucky her. The house had been let already - there went my spacious, spa-pooled Herne Bay townhouse with views.

Undeterred, I made more calls, trying to avoid the letting agents, the same names who have been guarding property for years.

I find their lack of attention to customer service annoying. You leave messages and they never call back, although their voicemail implies they will get you sorted - in fact, they can't wait.

Then, they always want you to do a drive-by first (which is fair enough) but it does double the time spent looking for a living arrangement.

I lied a few times, told them I had looked and liked, and would it be possible to get inside? No, more often than not, the key was unavailable, no one knew where it was, and could I call back?

If I'd found a home that way, I'd have been reluctant to hand over the equivalent of one or two weeks' rent. What they do for the fee, I have no idea.

Deep breaths - I took a lot of those. From the first round of viewings, only one place was suitable. I expressed keen interest, asked if we could move in pronto but was told the owner would prefer to sell and was waiting on a decision from a potential buyer. And, if it didn't sell, we would still have to apply to live there.

The leaking roof could have been a problem as the carpet slowly rotted away, yet it was the kind of place you would take on the strength of the bathroom alone. The bath had a serious control panel, more like a flight deck than a tub. But I guess it just was not to be.

So, I changed tack, altered my plans, ditched my friend and decided to look at living alone. But each time I was let into one of those studios, bedsits or cells - call them what you will - the owner would reiterate that they did mean it on the phone when they said "small." Still, I had hoped to have room for a bed.

New plan: I increased what I'd decided to pay and found heaven on Princes Wharf. It's perfect - private, cute, the sea out the window and minutes from work.

I told them I loved it, but also had to be honest, mentioned there is a good chance that I'm moving to Britain in June.

Accursed honesty, but they were wanting a tenant for a longer period. I understood but, by that stage of the game, I was possessed with the urge to move.

How about I buy the place? Did I just think that or did I say it out loud? I said it out loud.

This lovely couple was talking about selling their apartment to me. It had a carpark. In real-estate terms, this could be love. We decided to go away and think about it. Later I came to my senses.

My friends told me that I'm crazy - I was not to buy an apartment. What about a hotel, I asked. I tried a few, but it was not to be.

Ah, well, it's back on the ferry, up with the birds and on to my bike and, all week, I can look forward to doing it all over again.