Flat-hunting, flat-hunting. II.

Jesus, I'm just about to giveup. The Dream Flat is leider not available and God knows everything else is shit. Berlin, I love you but I draw the line at at living in a space that looks like it's been cobbled together out of spare bits of appartment block. Half a room here (seriously, HALF A ROOM IS GOOD FOR WHAT EXACTLY?), hardly any kitchen there (Mr Estate Agent Man you are very nice, and your gold trainers very snappy but I refuse to agree that my dining table would go nicely IN THE HALL). Please, Immobilien Gods, take pity on me. There's only so much more I can take.

And, while we're on the subject, this provision nonsense has me about ready to kill a puppy. The system seems to go something like this- someone wants to rent their flat out, they go to an estate agent, they receive a service, then the new renters, who have found the flat THEMSELVES, ONLINE, pay for this service. And not just a nominal amount, oh no, about 800 euros on average. It is alarmingly similar to the logic that allows out-going renters to say things like "oh and there's an extra 500 euro we'd ask you for, should you want the flat, because 18 months ago we made some decorating decisions that you should pay for, natuerlich und logisch". If anyone can point out what the fuck is logisch about that I'll be mighty bloody ueberrascht.

Flat-hunting, flat-hunting...

...is boring and crap and I'm sick of it. You have to spend ALL YOUR WAKING HOURS on the FUCKING INTERNET looking at ad after ad and PHONING PEOPLE and getting up at stupid o'clock on a Saturday when you're really TOO HUNGOVER and going to look at damned flats and having to pay 30c for the damned priviledge of vomiting in the loo at Neukoelln Arcaden. Ugh, ugh ugh and UGH.

But yesterday, and then again to today, I visited the loveliest flat I've seen in a long while. Hopefully, hopefully we will get it but, not being German, we haven't got all our Unterlagen sorted out. Damn them and their obsession with paperwork. But fingers crossed...

God, I may well have drank my own weight in vodka last night. I blame the Polish*. We went to Fire Club on Zionkirchestrasse which was fun but not amazing. Odd music. But fun was had, to my hazy recollection. Shapes were thrown, etc etc. Ugh, too drunk. Must grow up, three drinks maximum, like Gweneth Paltrow would do. Paltrow, I am willing to bet, has never been forced to pay to get sick in a public toilet.

* I mean the Polish people I was drinking with, not just the population in general. That would be rude, and they've enough on their plate at the moment without me sticking my oar in.

So my lovely ex-flatmate...

...and her new flatmate have started an awesome blog all about make-up and stuff. It's great, and lovely and pretty in a way mine will probably never be as I don't understand computers. Aaaaanyway, it's got me thinking on the many ways in which I fail to live up to modern grooming standards. I mean, you shouldn't think that I am running the streets of Berlin looking like some total hog with a mustache but my eyebrows are definitely more Brooke Shields than well, anyone with really shapely, dainty brows, and my methods of "shaping" my nails often involve the highly glamourous and not at all gross "biting and chewing" approach. And when it comes to make-up my relationship with that is best described in the immortal words of my mother, "Good lord, Megan, you look like a child with finger paints". So yeah, read lovely, elegant Clare and Jade's opinions on such matters and leave me to my vague, incoherent ramblings.

Speaking of vague and incoherent,I'm going out tonight. First my lovely friends are cooking me dinner and then we're going to Kleine Reise which has reopened in its usual and amazing location. I intend to be merry but composed as have a flight to get tomorrow and if I arrive hungover (again) my mother may actually kill me. On the off chance that any of you see me tonight, heading out of the realm of the merry but composed, please, please send me home.