GRRR.

As you all know, I'm a pretty easygoing person. I don't get angry very often. Some folks froth and bubble and seethe at the slightest of inconveniences, I tend to take things in my stride and don't really get upset if there's nothing that can be done. This approach works both for me and against me: it means I'm more often contented than not, but it also means I miss out on things because I don't feel like making a fuss in order to get them.

Having said this, I am REALLY FREAKING ANGRY today. So angry that I’m going to type in ALL CAPS and runmywordstogether, even more than usual.

And it's not for a great reason. And there's nothing I can do about it. I'm just really, really disappointed and angry that someone else's failure becomes my problem.

I'll start with the blog post I should have written two weeks ago. It was all there, in my head. Here is how it would have gone:

Guess what, you guys? I've found a new house! Hooray! And it's in a GREAT location! Seriously. A half-hour walk from work, right in the heart of a very funky area of town. Around the corner from one friend's house, a hopskipjump away from another. Close to shops, a gym, fabulous pubs and restaurants, buses to everywhere. The people are lovely, and the price is good, and .. get this… I found it on only my second day of looking! There were dozens of applicants for this house, but I very quickly recognised its potential and promptly set my awesomeness beams to stun; dazzling my way past the other hapless hopefuls, triumphantly prevailing over a bottle of wine and sparkling conversation with my new housemates.

It's all organised, I'm moving in mid-October. I've given notice on my flat, Mr Juicy is searching for my replacement. I am very, VERY, reallyalotohmygodit'sgoingtobesogood excited - I've shared my glee not only with my friends and colleagues, but have surprised several random strangers by stopping them in the street to share the good news. I am dizzy with possibility. It really feels like London life is falling into place: a good job, a great flat, a great posse of playmates - in fact, I am starting to preemptively mourn the fact that my time here is limited. It's time to get serious about looking into my visa options. I can really settle here!

Ah, the blog post that never was. So giddy and hopeful, I was - the mere thought of my new digs was enough to have me tapping a happy little dance along the street. I planned my décor, mapped out the route to work, and daydreamed happily of the weekends to come in my excellent new neighbourhood.

I felt like the Gods of the Househunt had decided that I suffered enough last time and it was time for me to catch a break. I knew they would strike me on down if I wasn't properly appreciative of the fact that I'd struck such gold with such apparent ease, and so I made my grateful thanks and bequeathed as many of my future progeny as they should ever require.

But, you know, maybe I didn't go far enough. Maybe, just maybe, I got a little smug. Another friend was looking for a flat and I confess that I may have given in to the temptation to boast of my success. "I've paid my dues", I said. "It was my time. Yours will come! It was so easy!" In fact, I suspected it was almost too easy.

And I was right.

I got a call tonight from the girl whose room I'm supposed to be taking. "Oh, I'm having trouble finding somewhere else. I think I might stay."

AAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

“I’m really sorry to do this to you, you seem so lovely and you’ve been so accommodating!”

(She didn’t even ask me to pardon her terrible pun).

Listen, sweetie, let me tell you plainly:

You SUCK.

Seriously. I hate your guts right now.

Why on earth would you advertise your room as available when you haven't found anywhere else? I don't want to freaking hear about the places you saw, and how they 'really just weren't very nice'. FFS, YOU are the one being an asshole here and yet it is ME who is homeless. I'M the one who has to find somewhere else, to go through the freaking heartache of looking at one dingy flat after another, my will being progressively beaten down until I just take whatever I have to in order to have a roof over my head. And winter is coming.

BITCH.

And the worst part is, ain't nowt I can do about it. I can rant here, but she's in the room and on the lease and I am not. I can hope that she gets a festering karmic bee sting on her arse, but that's about all.

Ugh.

Those Gods of the Househunt are vengeful, malicious fuckers: pretending to grant me my heart’s desire only to cruelly snatch it away. They’re laughing their guts out right now, I’m sure of it.

I know it will pass, that lalala of course it wasn't THAT good, I can find something better, et cetera whatever rationalisation bollocks. But for now? I am really, royally, incontrovertibly, steamingswearingwantingtopunchsomething PISSED OFF.

Rant end.