House hunting sucks. And I don’t just mean sucks as in ‘gee, this coffee sucks. I’m only drinking half of it’. I mean, it’s like your soul is slowly wasting away, leaving you a shell of a person bound by chains to your phone in case your potential future landlord calls and tells you that your references haven’t checked out. I mean, that hasn’t happened to me yet because I’m still waiting for anyone to call me back. See what I mean?
I need a place with a garden, which makes things more complicated. My tulip bulb collection won’t last in a tiny planter box in some fourth-floor apartment. Those plants are practically my life, and in a sort of practical sense because I sell them at the local county fair and they always go like hot cakes. No one can grow them as bright or big as me, so when people need flowers, sometimes I even end up getting commissions. It’s part of my livelihood, so balancing all that with finding a place that has a garden and is actually a reasonable price…it’s a nightmare. It doesn’t help that no one ever calls me back, leaving me with this sick feeling almost all the time as I wait for that call to confirm…something. Not sure what, but it’s something.
Things were so much easier when I was just renting the bungalow at the bottom of my friend’s garden. She had no problems with we basically taking care of her garden, filling it with tulips and hyacinth bulbs. Heck, it just meant that she didn’t have to lift a finger. But now she’s in Brisbane…and the search continues. I’ll find a new plot, surely. If maybe SOMEONE at SOME POINT chooses to call me back. Not that I’m bitter, but I know I got in first for that awesome one up the road.