“‘Oh Brancepeth,’ said the girl, her voice trembling, ‘why haven’t you any money? If only you had the merest pittance – enough for a flat in Mayfair and a little weekend place in the country somewhere and a couple of good cars and a villa in the South of France and a bit of trout fishing on some decent river, I would risk all for love.'”
– P.G. Wodehouse
Hi! You may remember us, we’re the couple that applied for housing nearly two months ago.
You’re holding up paperwork by not making any decisions and I’m getting a bit annoyed. My left eyebrow has risen twice, when you have moved back announcement dates on two separate occasions. I understand that you don’t realize how dreadful a thing the raised left eyebrow of C. Small Dog is, but let me just say it hasn’t happened twice since a nosy woman in the parish asked when J. and I are going to get around to reproducing. My response has gone down in parish legend and she slunk off, never to be seen or heard from since.
I’ve lived in London, dear Housing People, and am actually very good at getting around it. I honestly don’t have any preference if it’s in Camden or Westminster – I’ve haunted both extensively – I just would like somewhere to live, please. If the former, I will wander the market every weekend. If the later, I will practically live at my favorite cheese shop in Covent Garden and drag J. to shows in the West End (thank you, student discounts) at every opportunity. We will be busy with school and blissfully thrilled to be there.
But at this point, I would be blissfully thrilled to have a cardboard box to sleep in, as long as it has an address I can put on our visa applications. I’m not from the UK anymore, my family no longer lives in Cambridgeshire and we can’t crash with them while we wait for any flat at all between Battersea and Islington to make itself available.
Please make decisions and offers in the near future. My metaphoric nails have been gnawed to the wrist.
Yours with – Diminishing – Love,