The brothers have spent the last two or three days working very hard on their room. It looks masses better for the paint-job - it's at the top front of one of those huge (well, huge for our neck of the woods) Victorian houses so has a bay window and another window which they've cleaned, and they've painted the door too.
I have negotiated the arrival of two single beds, and removal of the double, with Mr Khan, which I hope will happen this weekend.
In the meantime, the brothers want to get cracking on jobs that need doing around our house, 'because once we start work proper we won't have time.' I really admire their confidence. But perhaps not enough to let them start anything here, and I still have some reservations about then feeling beholden to them because of favours they've done us. Tell me I'm screwed up.
I had a long conversation with Mr Khan today, when I took round some sandwiches for them. He has a job with a friend - 'twenty days work for two men, £5000' - which sounds as though it involves building an extension on someone's house. He's suggested meeting on Sunday but I'm going to be at my brother's which will leave them at OH's mercy as translator. God help them all.
I told Mr Khan I am going to make them business cards but he told me not to bother. 'Just put name, put number on paper in newsagent shop. Pakistanis like me not want pay expensive people.' I guess that's saved me a tenner and an hour's work. For now.
He also said that he wants DBrother to collect the rent when he's away: 'I make him boss of house', that he will pay them back any sundry expenses they incur in the course of their decoration and will not let them work for nothing. He explained that his father taught him several things, and started to list them. The first was to 'never tell lies', the second was to 'not keep money if find in street but give to charity' and another was 'to do good and God will be good to you.' I am starting to really quite like this guy. Total respect for his moral integrity. Or some of it, at least. As he then asked them not to tell the council where they're living.
He has also repeated incessantly that he thinks that are good men, and that he can see I am a good woman. Today he insisted that I repeat to them that he is helping them because he can see I am a good woman, he can hear it in my voice and see it in my face and he respects and trusts me. He would like me to meet his wife and thinks we'll get on. She is a good woman. I said I'm sure she must be because he is so good. Bloody hell, we're fast establishing something of a mutual admiration society! I really hope he isn't taking the piss.
Him saying all this is helpful. Not because I think he is right, but because let's face it, I have been thrown into a brand new life over the last five days. I feel as though I've fallen down a rabbit hole. It is completely surreal. And despite OH's protestations that this move wasn't going to impact on me, and despite my protestations that I wouldn't do anything anyway, these men are now completely and utterly dependent on me for their next moves. I found their room. I am negotiating with Mr Khan. I have organised their interviews for National Insurance numbers and found out what they need to open a bank account and got them booked onto free English language classes. I am making their coffee to their liking and their toasted sandwiches at lunchtime. And washing their clothes. And I am sitting in my dining room this evening when I'd rather be snuggled up on my own sofa watching something crappy on the telly.
I guess I would like to repeat, to give it emphasis, that I feel as though I have fallen down a rabbit hole. More reflections to follow on what, exactly, that means, as I'm sure I don't rightly know just yet.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Day 2 - bedding in
Actually it's now day four but you'd be forgiven for thinking it's a lifetime. I have just spent twenty minutes with OBrother confirming that yes, if a coin says '20' on it, it's 20p. And yes, a '1' means 1p. And surprise surprise, '50' means 50p. And no, '2' does not mean 20. Those of you who know me well will be truly amazed to hear that I held my tongue during this exchange - which I suspect was perpetuated as a bonding exercise. Anyway.
On Sunday the brothers spent most of the day painting. They also decided to strip off the wallpaper and plaster the cracks. And move the wardrobes and take down the curtains etc etc. They want to change the bed frames and buy new mattresses. And make the room look the very best it can. The lock on the door also needs some work which Khan said he doesn't mind them doing.
I am having to restrain myself from reminding them that this is a shitty rented room in a shitty rented house that they have no legal right to remain in (as far as I know) with a potentially psychotic landlord living beneath them.
But they are taking this all quite seriously and treating the room as a place they might be spending quite a while occupying. And as such, being positive and making it ship-shape. Credit to them, I guess. It's a trite thing to say, but taking a life position of positivity and optimism gets you a whole lot further than being negative and depressed. At least I hope it does. And at least this work is giving them something to do.
Mr Khan appeared to collect their rent and accosted OH in the hall and told him, and then me, that he had 'lots of work' for them. 'Five thousand pounds' work. He is apparently away 'on a job' for three or four days and will be back this week to discuss it. I don't know what to think. He told me some more stuff about his mysterious role as a secret policeman - that he is paid to listen in to terror suspects' conversations at places like train stations, because he speaks so many languages. Surely that isn't something he'd tell me about? Perhaps I misunderstood. Opinions, please! Nor are we sure what to make of the fact that when DBrother went downstairs to get something from the kitchen, he passed Mr Khan's door, which was half open, and saw him watching something about a suicide bomber or similar on the telly. When Mr Khan saw him he yelped, jumped up and slammed the door in his face. Hum. He really is rather odd.
Five minutes later he appeared upstairs with what the brothers described as 'the most disgusting drink of their lives', which they poured down the sink when he wasn't looking. When pressed to describe it further, they said it was not coffee, but tea. With milk. Boy oh boy that's an olfactory sensation they're going to be presented with a lot if they stay in this country! I had to smile.
Yesterday the brothers went back to do a third coat and came home saying they wanted to paint the walls a colour, so that all stains would be finally obliterated and all the 'microvia' (germs) gone. So this morning they have set off for a well-know DIY outlet that is about half-an-hours' walk away. Luckily, it is not raining. I was kind of hoping that the room might be ready for occupation by tomorrow, although if the beds/mattresses situation remains unresolved - I think they want to get new ones and I know I would too - it most likely won't be til the weekend. More soon!
On Sunday the brothers spent most of the day painting. They also decided to strip off the wallpaper and plaster the cracks. And move the wardrobes and take down the curtains etc etc. They want to change the bed frames and buy new mattresses. And make the room look the very best it can. The lock on the door also needs some work which Khan said he doesn't mind them doing.
I am having to restrain myself from reminding them that this is a shitty rented room in a shitty rented house that they have no legal right to remain in (as far as I know) with a potentially psychotic landlord living beneath them.
But they are taking this all quite seriously and treating the room as a place they might be spending quite a while occupying. And as such, being positive and making it ship-shape. Credit to them, I guess. It's a trite thing to say, but taking a life position of positivity and optimism gets you a whole lot further than being negative and depressed. At least I hope it does. And at least this work is giving them something to do.
Mr Khan appeared to collect their rent and accosted OH in the hall and told him, and then me, that he had 'lots of work' for them. 'Five thousand pounds' work. He is apparently away 'on a job' for three or four days and will be back this week to discuss it. I don't know what to think. He told me some more stuff about his mysterious role as a secret policeman - that he is paid to listen in to terror suspects' conversations at places like train stations, because he speaks so many languages. Surely that isn't something he'd tell me about? Perhaps I misunderstood. Opinions, please! Nor are we sure what to make of the fact that when DBrother went downstairs to get something from the kitchen, he passed Mr Khan's door, which was half open, and saw him watching something about a suicide bomber or similar on the telly. When Mr Khan saw him he yelped, jumped up and slammed the door in his face. Hum. He really is rather odd.
Five minutes later he appeared upstairs with what the brothers described as 'the most disgusting drink of their lives', which they poured down the sink when he wasn't looking. When pressed to describe it further, they said it was not coffee, but tea. With milk. Boy oh boy that's an olfactory sensation they're going to be presented with a lot if they stay in this country! I had to smile.
Yesterday the brothers went back to do a third coat and came home saying they wanted to paint the walls a colour, so that all stains would be finally obliterated and all the 'microvia' (germs) gone. So this morning they have set off for a well-know DIY outlet that is about half-an-hours' walk away. Luckily, it is not raining. I was kind of hoping that the room might be ready for occupation by tomorrow, although if the beds/mattresses situation remains unresolved - I think they want to get new ones and I know I would too - it most likely won't be til the weekend. More soon!
Monday, September 24, 2012
Day 1 still and Mr Khan - total nutter or secret policeman?
Mr Khan* opened the door and we trooped upstairs to see the room. Once we were all in, he hit his head a few more times and found several ways of explaining that he wanted good, clean people and that he had been saving the room for us despite lots of interest. I couldn't read what the brothers were thinking. They asked if they could paint it, and he said yes. I asked if it had heating and checked the radiators. I asked if he had a TV license and he said he has Sky!? It wasn't worth trying to press the issue in what I am now considering might be intentionally broken English. He uses the word 'backside' out of context quite a lot. The room was bigger than I'd remembered, has a double bed and a single mattress on the floor, as well as a small sofa and a large wardrobe.
We went to see the bathroom, ok. And then the kitchen etc. All ok. Two men were at the table eating, other new tenants, he said. Seemed friendly enough. I asked if they would teach the brothers English. Everybody laughed cheerily. We asked about the fridge and washing machine etc. All ok. Even a BBQ in the back garden. Mr Khan asked if they smoke and said that if they did they could smoke outside the back door. I said that they didn't. He said that he did, a bit, so I said that I hoped he would smoke outside the back door. We laughed again.
I asked about a contract and he said he wasn't bothered with contracts. He said again how he could see they were good, clean people and that's all that mattered to him. I explained that they one is a plumber and one a plasterer and tiler, as well as being general handymen and that they would want to keep the place clean and up-together. He seemed delighted. He said he'd pay them to paint their room and that he'd pay them to paint the whole house if that went well. He said he is a builder and had so much work that he could keep them really busy, so busy that they would tell him they don't want any more work.
I consider myself a pretty good judge of people but I just couldn't decide what to make of him. He seemed really genuine but also a bit of a nutter. I said that we needed to trust him and that he seemed a good, clean man (years of being an honorary man in Albania have really paid off and I am quite good at leading these kind of negotiations) and that we wanted to go ahead and take the room. I said I would give him my address as a guarantee and that I hoped he was being honest and good and that he would look after the brothers for me. (Bloody hell, if you'd told me two days ago that I'd be referring to them as my family I'd have laughed. Or cried.) He said that of course he would. So I asked for the keys and he said he would get them cut and bring them round to my house and collect the money then. We agreed that the brothers would paint the room over the weekend and that the rent would start from Monday. He invited us to stay and have a cup of tea but I explained that we wanted to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted as the forecast from tomorrow is rain.
So we walked home with warmth on our faces and in our hearts, discussing how they seemed to have found not only a room but possible work as well. On the side and a bit dodgy all of it of course, but better than nothing and you have to start somewhere. (For anyone disapproving of this, I'm not sure what to say. Nor would I have, last week.)(And I'm keeping this anonymous so that presumably I won't get the secret police onto me, but if you disagree please say so and I'll write a post about how we dobbed him in and then they went home to Greece.)(And can I also remind you that this blog is 'semi-fictitious' anyway...) Surreal!
A couple of hours later Mr Khan rang and said he was coming round with the keys. He sat down in my living room and started to tell us about his life. How he had come to the UK with nothing, no papers, no money. How he is related to Imran Khan and that his family home in Pakistan has twenty-eight rooms and is made of marble. He has three houses, two in the city where we live and another in London. His wife, 'a black woman' and the kids live in the other house here, and he keeps a room in the house he's renting out for 'when we argue'. He said the Taliban had destroyed his country, that most of them are from Pakistan, and that his parents and two brothers and two sisters have been killed by bombs. I interrupted his flow to ask if he'd give me a receipt for the deposit and he said he'd sign whatever I wrote. We both knew it meant nothing but I went through the motions, hoping I wasn't kissing the money goodbye. We showed him the receipt for the paint the brothers had gone off with OH to buy, and he said he'd take thirty quid off the first month's rent for them to paint the room, and deduct the cost of the paint as well. They are to take the money round when they go to start painting. He said he had made a lot of effort to hoover the floor. When I eventually hustled him to the door he told me that he speaks nine languages and something that I didn't understand, 'I work three days like secret police.'
I don't know if we are being foolishly trusting or taking a calculated risk in desperate circumstances. I hope the key turns in the lock when they go round tomorrow, after the visit to the Orthodox Church that I scheduled for them.
*This may or may not be his real name. Right now I am still expecting to be pinched and to wake up.
We went to see the bathroom, ok. And then the kitchen etc. All ok. Two men were at the table eating, other new tenants, he said. Seemed friendly enough. I asked if they would teach the brothers English. Everybody laughed cheerily. We asked about the fridge and washing machine etc. All ok. Even a BBQ in the back garden. Mr Khan asked if they smoke and said that if they did they could smoke outside the back door. I said that they didn't. He said that he did, a bit, so I said that I hoped he would smoke outside the back door. We laughed again.
I asked about a contract and he said he wasn't bothered with contracts. He said again how he could see they were good, clean people and that's all that mattered to him. I explained that they one is a plumber and one a plasterer and tiler, as well as being general handymen and that they would want to keep the place clean and up-together. He seemed delighted. He said he'd pay them to paint their room and that he'd pay them to paint the whole house if that went well. He said he is a builder and had so much work that he could keep them really busy, so busy that they would tell him they don't want any more work.
I consider myself a pretty good judge of people but I just couldn't decide what to make of him. He seemed really genuine but also a bit of a nutter. I said that we needed to trust him and that he seemed a good, clean man (years of being an honorary man in Albania have really paid off and I am quite good at leading these kind of negotiations) and that we wanted to go ahead and take the room. I said I would give him my address as a guarantee and that I hoped he was being honest and good and that he would look after the brothers for me. (Bloody hell, if you'd told me two days ago that I'd be referring to them as my family I'd have laughed. Or cried.) He said that of course he would. So I asked for the keys and he said he would get them cut and bring them round to my house and collect the money then. We agreed that the brothers would paint the room over the weekend and that the rent would start from Monday. He invited us to stay and have a cup of tea but I explained that we wanted to enjoy the sunshine while it lasted as the forecast from tomorrow is rain.
So we walked home with warmth on our faces and in our hearts, discussing how they seemed to have found not only a room but possible work as well. On the side and a bit dodgy all of it of course, but better than nothing and you have to start somewhere. (For anyone disapproving of this, I'm not sure what to say. Nor would I have, last week.)(And I'm keeping this anonymous so that presumably I won't get the secret police onto me, but if you disagree please say so and I'll write a post about how we dobbed him in and then they went home to Greece.)(And can I also remind you that this blog is 'semi-fictitious' anyway...) Surreal!
A couple of hours later Mr Khan rang and said he was coming round with the keys. He sat down in my living room and started to tell us about his life. How he had come to the UK with nothing, no papers, no money. How he is related to Imran Khan and that his family home in Pakistan has twenty-eight rooms and is made of marble. He has three houses, two in the city where we live and another in London. His wife, 'a black woman' and the kids live in the other house here, and he keeps a room in the house he's renting out for 'when we argue'. He said the Taliban had destroyed his country, that most of them are from Pakistan, and that his parents and two brothers and two sisters have been killed by bombs. I interrupted his flow to ask if he'd give me a receipt for the deposit and he said he'd sign whatever I wrote. We both knew it meant nothing but I went through the motions, hoping I wasn't kissing the money goodbye. We showed him the receipt for the paint the brothers had gone off with OH to buy, and he said he'd take thirty quid off the first month's rent for them to paint the room, and deduct the cost of the paint as well. They are to take the money round when they go to start painting. He said he had made a lot of effort to hoover the floor. When I eventually hustled him to the door he told me that he speaks nine languages and something that I didn't understand, 'I work three days like secret police.'
I don't know if we are being foolishly trusting or taking a calculated risk in desperate circumstances. I hope the key turns in the lock when they go round tomorrow, after the visit to the Orthodox Church that I scheduled for them.
*This may or may not be his real name. Right now I am still expecting to be pinched and to wake up.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Day 1 - continues. And a lot of blah about tears
Life, eh? For the last two weeks I have felt like crying most of the time. I have been feeling unbelievably stressed, out of control and confused. Like a yo-yo, as I swung between all the conflicting emotions I was experiencing. Anger, empathy, sympathy, sadness. And as though my marriage was on the rocks. (And as you all know, it's not the first time I've felt like that.) It's one thing to have a massive difference of opinion about something, but quite another for OH to plough ahead and make what he wanted to happen, happen, against my will, when it was going to impact on me so heavily. We were at loggerheads, equally resolute in our positions and both of us unwilling to shift, or able to discuss the grey area in between. He was determined that his brothers should come. I was equally determined that they shouldn't. This didn't leave much scope for finding a middle ground. Unless he was prepared to bugger off and live with them instead.
But unusually for me, I haven't cried. I think I have been too confused, numb - frozen, almost - to be able to express the whirlwind that was whizzing around inside me and turning my stomach to jelly every few minutes. I have looked at the pavement a lot, to avoid eye contact or smiles that might set me off. I have chaired meetings I was afraid to go to in case I lost it half way through. I have wanted to avoid people on the school run, in case anyone asked how I was and thus prompted me to dissolve into tears of anger and frustration. I guess I have known that I needed to keep calm and hold things together for the kids.
It doesn't usually take much to set me off. It has be said of me that I'm over-sensitive, and that I haven't let go of past pain which is why I can get upset over something seemingly trivial. I like to think that I am quick to laugh and have a reasonable sense of humour that offsets some of the heavier stuff. And I have always thought of myself as a compassionate type.
And so it was that yesterday morning, when OBrother came downstairs wearing a crumpled suit, looking stiff and and tired, and treading with the exact same gait as OH's father, who passed away nearly three years ago, it took everything I could muster not to burst into tears on the spot. Tears of sympathy, pain, and pity I suppose. There are plenty of ways to interpret someone choosing to wear a suit, but to me it epitomized the gulf that lies between us. No-one comes to stay with a relative in another country in the knowledge that the reception might be frosty, and leaving loved ones behind, unless you are pretty desperate. I presume. But hells bells, we weren't just on different pages of a book, we were on different frigging books. (I was going to use a metaphor about different communications media here but my brain couldn't cope and I gave up.)(I am writing this with two televisions on in the house, each competing to drown the other out.)
I shook his hand, asked how he slept and how the journey was, and invited him to go and sit with the others in the front room while I made him a drink. And then I went through the kitchen and into the loo, sat on the lid and started to weep. I put my palms over my eyes to try and hold the tears in but the buggers were sliding about all over the place.
I don't generally view tears as a bad thing. With one exception, I suppose, and that's when they are borne of pity, and their object is within spitting distance and might see and understand how you're feeling. Especially that kind of overwhelmingly helpless pity that just wells up inside you when it all feels too much, too confusing, too impossible to solve. I haven't often experienced this but one memory comes to mind. I once visited a small community in Kenya with the NGO I was working with at the time, and at the end of my first day there, had to sit while a group of people danced and sang for us, celebrating the fact that we had come to visit. I couldn't take it at face value. I felt like an imposter. Like I shouldn't be there. It seemed ridiculous. I didn't see how they could have been genuinely excited to have us there, and I was worried that they were confusing our role as communications staff with that of funders, and that the effort was being made in the hope that more funding would be given. All the fucked-upness of the world came and rested in my lap. I knew that I had to look happy, pleased, and that anything else would cause real insult. A few tears of tiredness of life, really, were already threatening to leak out when I was asked to speak. Bloody hell. The shock stopped me in my tracks. I don't think anything else would have. Somehow I explained that this had been one of the most significant days of my life. I know I looked worried. Then I caught the eye of a little girl dressed in what was obviously a really special outfit, and I gave myself a huge metaphorical kick up the backside and asked if they could teach me to dance.
So. OH found me on the loo and looked horrified. And I said that I really really REALLY needed him to help me get through the next conversation that I knew I had to lead because he wouldn't explain to them properly what the score was here, and what the room was like and how much it would cost. And to my surprise, it wasn't that bad. They listened, they agreed to take the room but said they wanted to single beds not a double and we agreed to take our inflatable mattress if Khan couldn't provide them. They were visibly shocked at the cost and I agreed to pay the deposit. And then OBrother said, 'if we're going to have to live like gypsies, then we are going to have to live like gypsies because that's what we are.'
And then we left to find Mr Khan.
But unusually for me, I haven't cried. I think I have been too confused, numb - frozen, almost - to be able to express the whirlwind that was whizzing around inside me and turning my stomach to jelly every few minutes. I have looked at the pavement a lot, to avoid eye contact or smiles that might set me off. I have chaired meetings I was afraid to go to in case I lost it half way through. I have wanted to avoid people on the school run, in case anyone asked how I was and thus prompted me to dissolve into tears of anger and frustration. I guess I have known that I needed to keep calm and hold things together for the kids.
It doesn't usually take much to set me off. It has be said of me that I'm over-sensitive, and that I haven't let go of past pain which is why I can get upset over something seemingly trivial. I like to think that I am quick to laugh and have a reasonable sense of humour that offsets some of the heavier stuff. And I have always thought of myself as a compassionate type.
And so it was that yesterday morning, when OBrother came downstairs wearing a crumpled suit, looking stiff and and tired, and treading with the exact same gait as OH's father, who passed away nearly three years ago, it took everything I could muster not to burst into tears on the spot. Tears of sympathy, pain, and pity I suppose. There are plenty of ways to interpret someone choosing to wear a suit, but to me it epitomized the gulf that lies between us. No-one comes to stay with a relative in another country in the knowledge that the reception might be frosty, and leaving loved ones behind, unless you are pretty desperate. I presume. But hells bells, we weren't just on different pages of a book, we were on different frigging books. (I was going to use a metaphor about different communications media here but my brain couldn't cope and I gave up.)(I am writing this with two televisions on in the house, each competing to drown the other out.)
I shook his hand, asked how he slept and how the journey was, and invited him to go and sit with the others in the front room while I made him a drink. And then I went through the kitchen and into the loo, sat on the lid and started to weep. I put my palms over my eyes to try and hold the tears in but the buggers were sliding about all over the place.
I don't generally view tears as a bad thing. With one exception, I suppose, and that's when they are borne of pity, and their object is within spitting distance and might see and understand how you're feeling. Especially that kind of overwhelmingly helpless pity that just wells up inside you when it all feels too much, too confusing, too impossible to solve. I haven't often experienced this but one memory comes to mind. I once visited a small community in Kenya with the NGO I was working with at the time, and at the end of my first day there, had to sit while a group of people danced and sang for us, celebrating the fact that we had come to visit. I couldn't take it at face value. I felt like an imposter. Like I shouldn't be there. It seemed ridiculous. I didn't see how they could have been genuinely excited to have us there, and I was worried that they were confusing our role as communications staff with that of funders, and that the effort was being made in the hope that more funding would be given. All the fucked-upness of the world came and rested in my lap. I knew that I had to look happy, pleased, and that anything else would cause real insult. A few tears of tiredness of life, really, were already threatening to leak out when I was asked to speak. Bloody hell. The shock stopped me in my tracks. I don't think anything else would have. Somehow I explained that this had been one of the most significant days of my life. I know I looked worried. Then I caught the eye of a little girl dressed in what was obviously a really special outfit, and I gave myself a huge metaphorical kick up the backside and asked if they could teach me to dance.
So. OH found me on the loo and looked horrified. And I said that I really really REALLY needed him to help me get through the next conversation that I knew I had to lead because he wouldn't explain to them properly what the score was here, and what the room was like and how much it would cost. And to my surprise, it wasn't that bad. They listened, they agreed to take the room but said they wanted to single beds not a double and we agreed to take our inflatable mattress if Khan couldn't provide them. They were visibly shocked at the cost and I agreed to pay the deposit. And then OBrother said, 'if we're going to have to live like gypsies, then we are going to have to live like gypsies because that's what we are.'
And then we left to find Mr Khan.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Day 1 - they have arrived
So, they have arrived. I heard people moving around at about 3 o'clock this morning. I had made up a bed for myself on a camping mattress on the floor of the boys' room and put my earplugs at the ready, so that I could close the door and try and get a reasonable nights' sleep in the knowledge that I would be getting up with the boys when they woke at about half past six.
I am writing this in the sun in the park. I had to get Babe to his music class for 9 so I brought my laptop with me. As we left I heard OBrother (the other is DBrother) ask how much it is. Other Half told him that it's £5. Actually it's £6.60. 'Per month?' the brother asked. Sweet Jesus. Was he in a dreamworld when he visited last Christmas and watched us shopping and taking him out all over the place? The bus into town is £3.90.
Anyway, when they did wake, the boys ran downstairs to watch telly only to find OBrother on the sofa. This is the brother who had sworn 'never to cross my threshold' after an argument we had in Albania earlier this year. I had tried to explain why his belief that he would earn more than Other Half does on a building site because he is 'a good tiler and works for a high daily rate' was not realistic since he does not speak English, and ended up losing my temper and calling him a bloody idiot. So perhaps he is making a point by not accepting the place next to his brother in our king-size bed in the main bedroom as he has said he will be renting a place of his own. I hope the reason he is on the sofa is not because he does not want to share a bed with his brother because, having given over the main bedroom to them, I have no intention of turning my sitting room into a bedroom as well.
Through all these hellish months of arguing about whether they would, should or could come or not, Other Half has made two claims:
1 It will not impact on me so what do I have to complain about? (Clearly untrue but more about that later.)
2 They (well, 'He' actually - another brother was only added to the list of arrivals just a week or two ago) will not live with us because Other Half will find him/them a room.
A few weeks ago, despite my continual assertion that this will not work (I'll give my reasons for that later, too) it became clear that they were indeed coming. And last week it became clear that the bloke OH knows from the gym who works for a lettings agent was not going to come good in terms of his promise to find them a room round here, so I swung into action.
Several things became immediately obvious:
1 Rooms in a shared house are not usually let to people in pairs unless they are intimate with one another
2 Two Greek brothers in their late forties/fifties who do not speak English and who want to share a room are not what people who are advertising for 'young professional wanted to join sociable shabby-chic household' are looking for
3 You don't get even a room for less than £300 a month; that's the going rate for one person (around £75 per person per week) and without references or the possibility of a credit check you can be asked to pay as much as six months up front.
Gumtree was clearly not the right place to start my search. So I started looking for numbers on the back of corner shop doors etc, and thanks to a sharp-eyed friend I encountered 'Khan'. He speaks little English but we managed to establish the fact that he has a room in a shared house that he is prepared to let two brothers share - on the understanding that they are working (I glossed over this a bit) - for £300 per month. This is 371 Euros, and about what a two-bed flat would cost in one of the cheaper areas of Athens. And more, incidentally, than we have in the bank at the moment. Make no mistake, we are not surviving on what OH earns but have decided to borrow, wing it etc etc until Babe2 starts school in September if we can. This could take me back to the list of angry reasons I have for objecting to them coming, but as I said, I'll come to that later.
So I went to see the room. After waiting outside the wrong house for a while first because Khan had got his numbers muddled up. Bloody hell. It's a long time since I did this, but shared houses can be pretty grim, can't they? And I do realise there are far worse dives than the one I went to look around. I've seen the news reports on bucket-loads of immigrants living in garages across swathes of suburban London. And let's not get onto what millions of others in the developing world have to put up with.
So, it was a large upstairs double bay. Some peeling wallpaper. Not especially clean but not smelly. Furnished 'adequately' I suppose. Clean enough very small bathroom. Large shared kitchen/diner with a huge box of over-ripe pineapples on the not-wiped table. In significant need of a deep-clean. The whole downstairs stank of curry. The other rooms (only one of which is let, to a 'good' single male) were all padlocked. The carpet throughout was awful. What a dilemma! Khan explained that he was tired of people. He slapped his head a lot while saying this. He wants good, clean, honest people. He can see that I am a nice clean lady so he will let the brothers live in the room. He said he had a cousin living in it for three days but that he would paint it by Friday. I didn't try and ask how he would paint it, if he had someone living in it.
I was glad to leave, and said I'd call him back. What to do? It wasn't awful but it wasn't where I would want to live. It is as cheap as we're going to find and I know the brothers will consider it very expensive. I have already decided that I will offer to pay the deposit and can use our overdraft to do this. I suspect that they will see it and decide they don't like it. I have a hunch they don't want to share a bed. I would be letting them take it knowing in my heart that I don't believe they are going to find work. But the alternative means having another two men in my house for whom I will have to cater, after whom I will have to clean and tidy - don't suggest ground rules, because that is not a word familiar to Greek hospitality and they are men who are used to having women running around after them - while I sleep on the floor and lose my main bedroom and sitting room to their continual and (I believe) inevitably increasingly depressed presence. Could I let them stay for a fixed period of time, you ask? This would involve apply conditions to their presence that Other Half would not countenance because it runs at odds with the aforementioned and unstated rules around hospitality that exist in his culture. Hard to explain how or why, but simply put, it is just not a conversation I would be allowed to have. And even as I put that in writing I wonder when did I, an intelligent, educated and reasonably kind person, find myself living in a situation where some conversations just can't be had?
Today the sun is shining and I hope that we will go and see the room, make an amicable decision, and then spend some time in the park. We can't go anywhere else because we don't all fit in the car. The forecast for tomorrow and most of next week is heavy rain and that will have an impact all of its' own. OH will be at work. Babe needs school shoes and has wide feet so we are going to have to visit Clarks somewhere tomorrow and I don't really want to go in convoy. More soon!
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