An empty flat
So, my suspicions were correct: I don’t have a tenant at all.
I rang the agent this morning and asked her how things were going. She explained that she had re-advertised but that she wasn’t too hopeful. I explained that I didn’t even know the original tenants hadn’t moved in, so had gone ahead and registered them. She explained that she had sent an email. I explained that it hadn’t arrived, and that emails don’t just go missing - especially not as I’d already had a mail from her a couple of weeks ago, so she’s not getting filtered out by my spam trap.
Ho-hum.
So what now? Well, I’ll stick with her for another couple of weeks and see how things go with this new advert. She wants me to let it unfurnished, but I’m reluctant to do that. Although I could take my bed, table and chairs to bits so they could be stored easily enough, I would have to get rid of the settee and don’t know what I would do with the fridge, freezer and washing machine, so I’m reluctant to go down that path.
Fortunately a very nice dinner with Emilie, Kathryn and Mark took my mind off it all this evening. We started in the Alphabet Bar (I don’t think we ever start anywhere else) where Mark showed us the spider bites on his hands. How he managed to get them in a posh air-conditioned fourth-floor apartment in the middle of Sydney, I don’t know, but they were apparently from a white tail, which is apparently worse than a red back, which is apparently bad indeed.
We ate Thai at some place I’d never been to before despite the fact it is just off one side of Carnaby Street, and then made plans over coffee in Amalfi, which for years and years and years while Lorraine was still alive was the de facto venue for PCW’s Christmas lunch. I’d not been in there since.
So, we settled on a weekend trip down to Southend to play bingo, followed by a Carry On evening around at ours.
White trash a go-go.
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