Okay this is it. I have definitely found THE house. I have never been surer of moving into somewhere, not even the lovely house in Norman Street in York which I still think back on quite fondly, or my dinky little studio in Stockwell. I swung by this evening for what was meant to be a brief second viewing and meeting with the other housemate, and we talked for such a long time we all totally lost track of time and the next person came to view the house while I was still there, which made it all quite awkward (and funny, on hindsight). I was then solemnly told that the two of them would confer about who they’d like to offer the room to, and that I would be contacted by tomorrow evening one way or another.

Feeling hopeful, and probably smiling quite stupidly to myself, I made my way back to the tube station, and hadn’t been gone for 5 minutes when I got a call to say that it had taken them all of a few seconds to decide and I would have to get packing because they’d really like me to come stay. It took me, similarly, all of a few seconds to accept. Having been told independently by both people currently living there (while the other wasn’t around) that the other person was lovely, that they’d had no problems at all, and having been there again just to be sure of my first impressions, I felt absolutely certain. Sitting in the kitchen with them over drinks felt like hanging out with old friends. It felt right. And aforementioned stupid-smile-to-myself is still on my face; there’s this deep, satisfying sense of being really, truly happy with this decision. That house felt like a home to me. And I guess at the end of the day, that’s really all there is to it.