Well it’s official; fact is stranger than fiction in Flirty world. My adventures this morning topped any story I could make up. As I am now a lady of leisure again, (having convinced myself and my parents that there is no point trying to get another job before Christmas) I took a relaxed approach to getting up today. All was going well until I went to leave the bedroom and discovered the door wouldn’t open. The knob just kept turning in my hand – and that’s not a euphuism.

Panic set in as I was on my own, my keys were in the living room and from my last kitchen experience I knew the door wouldn’t open no matter what I did. The problem was this time I had no hatch to escape from. Thankfully my mobile was in the room. A few panic calls later and things were not looking good; Dr McRide wasn’t answering his phone, no one had a spare set of keys and the letting agent was less than helpful:

“Hi, this is Flirty in Apt X. I’ve locked myself in the bedroom, do you have a spare set of keys?� me

“We normally don’t hold keys, can I put you on hold while I check. Don’t go anywhere – not that you can. (Roars of laughter followed by hold music) Definitely no keys you’ll have to ring a locksmith� estate agent.

I did what any women would in my situation and started trying on clothes, hoping that divine inspiration would happen mid outfit. Two hours later and my wardrobe was perfectly co-ordinated like a Whistles shop, but I was still trapped and starting to get a bit hungry. In some weird ‘we are connected by a higher force’ Dr. McRide rang. (More likely it was the 27 voice and text messages I had left for him). Once he stopped laughing he agreed to pop back and release me. I sat on the window ledge like Rapunzel waiting for her prince. Except this prince rode a very high tec mountain bike. I knocked and waved down from my bedroom window when I saw him coming. On the off chance he didn’t know where I lived. Sadly releasing me was to prove more challenging than simply turning the handle.

Apparently the lock was completely f*cked. I think that’s a technical term. After much talking through the door like star crossed lovers, Dr McRide decided he would have to break in. I stood back while he lashed an almighty kick at the door and it swung open. The drama of the situation had of course gone completely to my head and I was standing there, clutching my bosom with clasped hands like some 19th century damsel. Dr. McRide was looking particularly yum with his clothes and hair wet from the rain and his chest heaving with the exertion of breaking down the door.

Now if this was proper chick lit he would have grabbed me in a passionate embrace, collapsed on the bed and done very rude things to each other. Sadly this isn’t chick lit and we live in Ireland. Instead I asked did he want some tea. We spent the next 10 minutes discussing the merits of various pieces of door furniture and sorting out our “issues� from last week. Afterwards he jumped back on his bike and cycled off into the rain. My hero.

The good news is that my bedroom door will now always be open if Dr McRide ever decides to barge back in again – sigh………

Currently I am looking for a flatmate to share my lovely apartment in the retirement community. The search has not been going particularly well. Mainly because I insist on sharing with someone over 30 and Irish, most of whom already own their own place. Now you can scream racism, but having lived on foreign soil for the last 5 years I don’t want to continue enunciating every word and using Jack and Jill language to communicate.

The finding a flatmate process is becoming a bit tiresome and I am seriously considering how I can afford the rent on my own: leaves versus toilet roll or even worse Lidl versus M&S. Last night all my fortunes changed. Viewer number 478 showed up at 7pm. Opening the door with my best, I hope you’re not a freak face I was rendered speechless. Standing in front of me was the most stunning man I have ever seen in real life. He was so perfect I almost bent down to chisel a bit off his toe, just to check he was real.

Now he wasn’t Calvin Klein ad gorgeous more big stubble shaving guy ad – a blokey bloke; complete with sallow skin, hair that actually glowed it was so black and a slightly shy but cheeky smile that made you feel like someone was hugging your heart. At this point I had to slap my hand to my mouth to stop the pool of drool dribbling down my chin. Otherwise he might think I was as senile as my neighbours.

I stuttered a welcome and ushered him in to have a look around. He was just as perfect from the back as the front. Something I continued to check out as he bent over to check out the washing machine. Now the best thing about flat mate hunting is that you get to ask all manner of inappropriate questions – so I did. The basic info is that he is over from the UK, studying to be some type of doctor for kids - swoon. Didn’t get the exact details as my mind was occupied thinking of names for our first born son. He is single and still trying to find his way around. I would happily have given him a guided tour of me. When he’s not working he generally trains in the gym and boy did it show.

Eventually I ran out of legitimate questions to ask and had to let him leave. The sun may have risen and set around 3 times before I realised. Despite this he seemed genuinely interested in the place, if not me, which does create a dilemma. Can I really live with someone that gorgeous with hurling myself at him. It’s like working in a toffee factory and getting fitted with a set of railway track braces – temptation and disaster in one. I need to let him know by the weekend if the room is his. What should I do ?

On a separate but related point. To all the people who keep telling me to get out and meet people, that the man of my dreams isn’t going to come knocking on my door, well guess what – you’re wrong!

In the instant it takes me to send an email confirming a task it seems to vanish from my memory banks. So when I wandered off to bed on Friday night, a little the worse for wear, I was oblivious to my weekend arrangements. The next morning, alone and dazed I woke to some random buzzing.

After some hunting I realised it was the front door, which I then opened. In front of me was a mass of black. Tipping my head back I realised that a neck and head were attached to the barrel of a chest in a black t-shirt. He introduced himself as Larry the Locksmith ( or similar ). I had told the management company that I would be available on Saturday morning to get the kitchen lock fixed (see ‘Home Alone’ post). Sadly I didn’t remember this when choosing my bed-wear on Friday night or opening the door the next morning. Hence I was wearing a very tiny vest top with ‘I’ve Been A Very Bad Girl’ across the front and on the back of my briefs were the slightly larger instructions of ‘Spank Me’.

As there is a mirror positioned at the back of the hall facing the door Larry got the full impact. I was getting the distinct impression from Larry’s roving eye/s that he thought this maybe an invitation. Things were rapidly turning into the plot of a bad, or depending on your perspective, good porn movie. Larry even had a tool belt and seemed to be under the impression that he might get to use the tradesman’s entrance.

Slamming the front door I politely instructed him to wait while I ran into my bedroom and put on every item of clothing in my wardrobe. Five minutes later I waddled back to the door and pointed him towards the offending lock. Naturally I hid in my room until he was finished. Typical, the one time I get a handy man and I’m not even prepared!

On the sad scale living with your sister is pretty high, not as bad as with your parents, but still pretty high. But as I am discovering it is infinitely lower than flat sharing in your mid-thirties. Due to a combination of bad luck, limited funds and not being a great person to live with, I have never had much success with getting decent accommodation in Ireland. Hence I hate flat hunting.

My first experience was getting the bus to Dublin as a country green 17 year old. Stuck beside some old farmer who had an aversion to water long before Cryptosporidium became an issue. Across the way a mother would be feeding her child sandwiches from tin foil washed down with Fanta. I would count the towns until somewhere, generally pass Mullingar, the kid would upchuck the lot. The rest of the journey would be spent between the dueling aromas of vomit and B.O.

Sometime past mid-day, shortly after the ‘Evening Herald’ went on sale, the bus would arrive at O’Connell bridge. I’d race to get my copy of the paper and then sit down in one of the many fast food joints to plan my flat hunting day; identifying possible places to view and room shares to ring - along with 100,000 other teenagers. Early afternoon I would arrive up to some hideous bed-sit in Ranelagh to discover 20 people already queuing, generally in the rain. Out of desperation or lack of anything better to do sometimes I would que as well. Although the first person in line would always take the flat, irrespective of condition.

A mad rush for the pay phones would then ensue. The ones in shopping centers and pubs were warmer but more expensive. So provided it wasn’t too wet you’d wait for the pay boxes, gripping your Herald in one hand and notebook in the other. Despite warnings not to ring until after 7pm, around 4pm you’d start calling. Nurses just off shift and trying to sleep would scream down the phone at you, which was preferable to the endless engaged tone from everyone else. If lucky you might get to visit a flat-share off some obscure road in Rathmines. I knew every urine soaked tree on Leinster Road, trudging in the rain with my ‘Blue Book’ and asking other lost flat hunters where Kennilworth Square might be.

Appearing at the door, late, slightly sodden and trying to appear friendly but not overly keen, knowing you look like the girl at parties who tries to hard. Desperately hoping they like you enough to offer you a bed immediately and put an end to the horror of flat hunting. After weeks of searching I would end up in some hideous flat with some freak and their snake collection. Vowing next year it would be different, it never was.

In my twenties things improved slightly with mobile phones and kind friends (generally the ones trying to move me out) driving me around the various locations. But this was still basic compared to current system; visit Daft, select by location and room type, view photos and maybe even visit a few – piece of piss. I have the following tempting selection:

Bijou flat, pictured above, only 600 per month. (pic via Bloggorah/)
or
Apartment share with 42yr old man and his WWF collection, ‘I’m looking for a friend and not just a flat-mate’
Or
Double-bed to let, 800 per month, week days only.
Or
Studio apartment to share with one double bed - only 970 (don’t even want to think about how that works)
Or
Lots of rooms with ‘Owner Occupiers’, which means they will stalk every cup you put down without a coaster.
Or
‘Flat to let – 550 each for 3 people, 550 each for 2 people’ ( not sure how the maths works on that one )
Or
‘Close to Luas and excellent view of Dundrum Shopping Center’ (now I like retail as much as the next girl but…..)

Time to realise that maybe I need to buy my own place.

PS - any theories on buy now or wait much appreciated.