Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner. And Juice.

For the last year, I’ve been acutely aware that I would be homeless at the end of this month. I was reassured that there was no need for panic, that June and July were ‘moving months’, and that I would find a house quicker than I could snap my fingers (which given I can’t snap fingers, is not exactly an achievement). It got to the end of June and I was having no luck, so I did the unthinkable and called on THE ESTATE AGENT.

Henry, that was his name, rang me up and set up our meeting. The first thing that struck me was his voice. He was so concerned, so caring, asking all these questions about what kind of place I wanted to live in, and what I did for a living. I found myself pouring my heart and soul to him right there in the street, with people walking past me and thinking, ‘sorting out a blind date’. It took me a while to realise that what had disarmed me so was his Australian accent. I was already picturing a surfer dude with unrealistically golden locks and a glistening yet surprisingly unsweaty body. Good sense had departed the building.

I had 45 min to get to our rendezvous, so I made like road runner and beeped to it. I got there, opened the door and a quick recon revealed the only non-ethnic person in the room. He was so Aussie i.e. he was HOOOT. I sat in the chair, and tried not to smile too hard, surveying the board with all the flats they needed to sell or rent. I was in an estate agent’s inner sanctum. I expected them to make me sign an Official Secrets Act document of sorts, but instead he came up to me and said something in his heavy voice. Unfortunately all I could hear was ‘that’s not a toad, it’s a fush’, a slogan on a t-shirt I had seen at 7s. I told him this but all he did was give me a blank stare, smile awkwardly and swiftly carry on. He said things that sounded important, and then led me out of the building to the flat he thought ‘would be perfect for me’. I was so engrossed in his face, that I forgot how to use my legs and my sense of direction deserted me so I lapped at his heels like a helpless dog. He talked money, he talked life...and all I came out with was ‘you’re from the southern hemisphere right? Sidney?’ Then he properly smiled! I almost collapsed. ‘How did you guess?’... Conversation continued and the little devil in my head shouted ‘progress’. Let’s be clear, I had no plan. I don’t know what I thought flirting with my estate agent, whose sole purpose in life was to milk as much money out of me as he could, would achieve. But as I’ve said time and time before, I can’t help it.

We viewed the apartment and I fell in love, though I’m not sure I’d be that enthusiastic if it wasn’t for him. He made promises like ‘we’ll do what we can to get the price down’ and ‘you tick all the boxes for an excellent tenant’. I remained mute for fear that if I spoke, I would ask him out for dinner, or say something outrageous like ‘I tick your boxes huh?’ He would then be forced to list me on a register somewhere as a predator.

Back at the office, I started the arduous task of filling out lots of paperwork as he went to get himself (and hopefully me) some lunch. One of the other estate agents came in and pointing at me asked, ‘Which apartment?’ ‘Lakeview’, his boss answered, ‘courtesy of Henry’. I looked up in time to spot the other agents in the office nodding knowingly. I had a sneaking suspicion that I’d just been had. So I casually asked how good Henry was, and ‘excellent’ was the resounding reply. ‘Especially with women?’ I probed further, and unsurprisingly, they all smiled. It appears this flirting-to-get-what-you-want thing works both ways. Estate agents were particularly good at it, but then Freakonomics showed that they’re never up to any good. I’d just been had for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but luckily it was for a house I wanted. Be on your guard...these beautiful men are up to no good after all. He did get me a juice though.