My blog is too depressive, I’m told. Some even stopped reading it because of that. Now, I’m horribly offended – but I also have to admit that I do end up strangely melancholic whenever I grab the keyboard, even when I want to write about something happy. My only remedy is sticking to the facts, which usually don’t find interesting enough in and for itself, thoug I’m probably mistaken in this.
So, here you go.
My mum arrived on Monday – along with Winter himself –, equipped with an unpleasant cold and a good amount of tiredness, which translated into not wanting to do tourism or any other fancy programmes but simply being, resting and spending time with me. So we had three days of the most decadent tranquilité possible. This actually means we had good unhurried breakfasts, ate out every day and that the most demanding thing we did was had walking around the Christmas market looking for mulled wine. I’d been missing her – missing home – terribly.
Then she went home, and – well, saying hell broke loose would be the overstatement of the year, but still. Actually, it started earlier. I went to see a flat just before she arrived; I made a formal offer to rent it, which included sending some pretty sensitive personal data (the ways of Belgian real-estate agencies), only to learn two days later, when I had to call them, that the flat was already rented to another person. My mum left on Thursday morning; I had a visit to a flat at lunchtime the same day. The agent wrote me he’d be 10 minutes late, which turned out to be half an hour, which is only a bit painful at 0°C and with time lost from working hours. It wasn’t the best place, but desperate I was I almost decided to rent it. In the evening I had another appointment, waited another half an hour, after which I called the agent who told me in her most non-apologetic voice that that flat was already taken. I say, alright, but I had an appointment, I’ve been waiting for half an hour already. She says, the first visitor took the flat. I say, that’s all good and well, but she could have told me something. She says, but they get so many messages and anyway the office closes at 6:30pm. At that point I was shouting her head off in my almost-nonexistent French. You can imagine.
I wanted to go to sleep early, but my neighbour decided that precise night that they want to listen to some shitty music on max volume at 10pm. Given that theirs is another staircase, I decided not to go down three stairs to ring them up – but after about 20 minutes when the music was still on, I started hitting the radiator on the common wall furiously. (I know it’s weird, but it also happens to be the only way I can make some noise that may be heard on the other side.) My hand still hurts. Somehow I managed to fall asleep, only to wake up at 4am feeling distinctly sick and feverish. I got some water and my thermometer, but of course I fell asleep somewhere around the fourth minute, so at a certain point I saved the thermometer, never learning if I had a temperature or not.
I honestly wasn’t the most useful on Friday, but I pulled through, organising a visit to one flat for the evening ang four others for today. Then I went out salsa-dancing, and got home at 4am.
I woke up today to a sunny autumnish morning; the air was crisp and smelled of mulled wine (even if there wasn’t any in sight). Today, I walked about 7 hours, saw 3 apartments (the 4th visit was cancelled), did a good part of my Christmas shopping, made a decision, made a deal with the current tenant to buy the bed and the wardrobe that’s currently in the flat, and I even managed to get home and call my family with the news.
I even got the contract proposal. It’s in French, of course. I refuse to read it tonight.