The pints bounce off each other as we toast over our catch, our prey. The glistening contract lies before us like a concubine scattered with emeralds. A two day hunt, one catch. Our flat. A symbol of freedom, liberation and ultimately expense, but it was ours and it was perfect. I stretch my back half in contentment, the other in pain. I hate bar stools. I want to lean back and settle into a comfy chair not topple over backwards and crack my head on the pub dog grazing on pork scratchings behind me, so I lean forward in discomfort.
“That was quick,” I say, “Usually flat-hunting takes at least a week with as many arguments as a series of Big Brother cross-bred with the Apprentice.”
“Aye,” Ellen replies swirling her pint into a mini cyclone in a vain attempt to de-fizz it, I’ve never been convinced this works but I don’t tell her because she drinks faster this way. My phone rings and I answer.
“No we’ve found a flat, cheers Bobby,” I whittle into the phone.
“Twat.” Ellen bluntly states spilling the tsunami of cider over the lip of her glass in indignation. It subsides to a whirlpool as she speaks.
Bobby. My new arch enemy. The bad guy in our flat hunting saga. Fresh off of the 108 bus; we had walked eagerly though the area that, until now, I had always associated with my school days. Hand in hand with a real life boyfriend, looking in estate agents windows, lingering in kitchenware shops, party hats from my 21st birthday still stowed proudly in a box in my room; I had returned a fully-fledged grown up. Then along came Bobby.
“Alright then Angus, what is it that you do?” he had asked.
“Oh, I’m starting work in a Whisky bar in November.”
As Bobby dutifully noted this down I knew that this was it - my turn to show how much of an adult I really was. My pre-prepared answer on the tip of my tongue, he continued.
“Ok then Angus, well there are two places in the price range you’re looking at…”
The arrival of my cheesy chips woke me from my tooth grinding rage. I elegantly stuff one in my mouth as I voice my opinion for the umpteenth time.
“I mean who does he think he is!? Do I not need a job to pay my half of the rent? Am I, as a woman, doomed to do nothing but sponge off you for the rest of my life!?” More chips are consumed as I continue. “And then he had the cheek to ask if he could talk to you after calling MY mobile! NO YOU BLOODY WELL CAN’T BOBBY! …That’s what I should have said…” Without taking breath I cram another handful of the comforting cheesy mess into my face. I can sense that Angus is a little bored of my passionate rants against such blatant sexism and begin to slow my chewing to a more sensible pace.
“I agree with you,” I say calmly, “It took me back that he only talked to me, but look on the bright side he won’t be earning any commission off us, and to an estate agent that’s like a disciple getting a bitch-slap off Jesus,” I pause and feel a look off disgust cross my face as I observe my girlfriend lick the bowl of chips we were meant to share clean and hiccough, “As I was saying estate agents aren’t human they are like… like a sub-race lying and cheating their way into a world of estate cars (no pun intended), holidays in Ibiza and glamorous champagne cocktails…”
“Shaken with cyanide.”
“If you like. Like I said they lie and cheat because their ego gland inflates every time a lie hormone pumps through it. I don’t want to get into eugenics but they aren’t even worth caring about. They are lower than the slug.”
“I like putting salt on slugs,” Ellen interjects her huge eyes wide with enthusiasm.
“They are like a bully reincarnated as a slug.”
“I don’t like bullies.”
“Exactly, so I wouldn’t worry about Bobby. Besides he’s probably got some weird fetish where he goes into properties and masturbates over images of macaroni cheese,” I notice a gentle whirlpool has returned to Ellen’s pint, an indication that she is calm and judging by the size of the chip bowl probably a little full.
As I sup on my nicely de-fizzed cider, I reflect on the rest of the flat hunt.
“Still, I guess we should thank Bobby really.” Angus looks confused, proof that men may never understand the way a woman can so easily change her mind. “If we hadn’t agreed to go view that basement flat with the crazy kitchen-come-bathroom, we’d never have walked past that last estate agents.”
“Our flat is amazing,” Angus grins.
“I can’t believe we signed for a place after two days of looking. It was just so perfect. I was bricking it that the landlord wouldn’t accept our offer.”
I gulp down some beer with a pork scratching scrounged off the pub dog that is now snuffling in the corner rather than acting as my crash mat. I lean back on the stool’s back legs, wobble, then control it before Ellen notices.
“Probably could have made an even cheaper offer, but probably not worth the risk.”
“Definitely not worth the risk,” Ellen agrees.
“I wonder what special conditions we could have haggled for,” I say referring to the offer we put in and the section on said special conditions.
“More furniture maybe,” Ellen says patting the rotund pub dog on the head as it waddles past her with a sausage roll disguised beneath its chops. We watch the bar man tell the dog to drop the sausage roll. It gives a look as if to say ‘who me?’ and the sausage roll slowly disappears into his maw.
“Could have asked for a man servant or a Jacuzzi,” I venture.
“You wish,” I murmur, staring at the whirlpool I am creating with the ends of my pint. “Anyway, I don’t think you’d have to go to those lengths. If it’s men you’re looking for I’m sure there’d be someone you could pick up at our new gym and pool!”
“Yeah, I’m a bit tired of using you as my beard.” Angus jokes, but it falls on deaf ears as I spit the remains of my cider back into the glass, preventing my giggles from forcing it out through my nose. Before he can question my strange outburst, Angus starts laughing with me as our new favourite dog drops the urinal cake from between his teeth and begins to groom himself.
“You think it’s too late to request a barmy dog as part of the deal?” I laugh.
“Definitely not.”
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