What I wish I’d known before I rented a one person flat
Aside from eating avocado on toast or fathering a gaggle of cacti, renting your own flat is about the most adult thing you can possibly do in your early-to-mid-twenties. At least that’s what I assumed when I signed a 12 month contract for a studio flat in Germany last year. I thought this would be my opportunity to transform my fortunes entirely and blossom into a suave, sophisticated, turtleneck-wearing young adult. Not so. The fact of the matter is, living alone in this one-man, one-hob flat turned out to be a real pain in the arse. Long gone were the days when I could just oven bake my own focaccia or chain roast whole chickens on a whim. The situation was genuinely dire.
Procuring this piece of land however proved not too difficult. I sublet the flat from a German student called Melih, who was also spending the year abroad. A nice young man was Melih, though admittedly I do resent him slightly for waiting until after I had signed the tenancy agreement before telling me he was taking his mattress with him. He also singularly failed to warn me about the actual landlord, who later shouted at me with such vehement fury that I dropped anchor right then and there. More on him later. This setback aside, I was overall very pleased with my flat. It was located in the city centre, close to the university and student union, and just a stone’s throw from the gorgeous riverside. It all seemed far too good to be true, and soon enough I realised that it was in fact far too good to be true. That is, as soon as I ran out of underwear.
Though a washing machine was technically provided, it could only be operated using washing tokens purchased from the aforementioned landlord. The landlord did once sell me four washing tokens, which was somewhat undermined by the fact that he then immediately disappeared into the ether, never to be seen again. To give you some context, the man was about 150. He didn’t have an email address or a phone number, and his post box was constantly overflowing with letters, presumably from all his tenants vying to get some of his precious washing tokens. I did consider actually going to his home address, but it was absolute eons away. It was like trying to get into fucking Narnia, or something. There was a laundromat just a brief, nude jog from my residence, but debilitating social anxiety prevented me from ever actually using it. In the end I resorted to just hand washing all my clothes in the sink, or, if I was pushed for time, just showering fully clothed.
This brings me to the most overlooked problem with living in a one person flat. The crippling loneliness. As someone who revels in avoiding all human interaction, I imagined that living on my own would’ve been a total godsend. In reality it nearly sent me totally insane, made worse by the fact that my fucking doorbell didn’t work. This proved a rather obtrusive obstacle for my social life — whole friendships were spurned on account of my lack of doorbell. I did try to order a new doorbell, but the delivery man was unable to deliver it, such was my lack of doorbell. Before long I was driven utterly batshit crazy by my isolative state, hemmed into my one-man social bubble with nothing other than my cretinous thoughts for company. Of course, I wasn’t totally alone as my flat was overlooked by about four others — not a single spot was safe from a potential vantage point. I can’t guarantee that an onlooker wasn’t treated to a glimpse of anus, or perhaps a stray testicle as I marauded about the flat, desperately alone and longing for the loving warmth of human embrace.
Needless to say, I have since moved out and now occupy a salubrious Hales Place residence with my three housemates. Of course, living on your own does have a few upsides, it can be a lot of fun. But if you’re thinking of renting your own flat, for the love of god, make sure you have enough underwear.
