Spirit of the Houses

Moving house sucks so hard it should be employed as an alternative energy source. However, the viewing of houses should, for its wonderfulness, be employed as some sort of boyfriend. I love looking around other peoples' houses, and the fact that I'm going to be homeless in two weeks gives me the perfect excuse. Take that, ye house! I'm gonna get all IN your crannies.
No, it's not nosiness that attracts me to other people's houses; it's the crannies. The crannies and the sense of possibility that accompanies the discovery of new spaces. Perhaps it speaks volumes of unsavouriness about me, but for me a new cranny is one of life's greatest pleasures.
When I was a kid my parents spent about 30 years looking for a new house and nothing made me happier on a Saturday afternoon than wandering around something huge and unaffordable, looking into every corner, and under the stairs, and following every tiny pointless stairway to nowhere, looking for the perfect me-sized hollow. There was something magical about a new old house.
Now, although I still have some of the old excitement when opening doors and peering into wardrobes for some evidence of a false back, or looking for a goddam wishing well in the garden, some of that old magic is gone. I still love the houses, and really look forward to discovering new places, but the fact is, when it's a flatshare, the cranny possibilities are slightly limited. There's only so many corners and exciting shelfy things you can have in a double rm w/ window. Magic doesn't like freestanding pine wardrobes.
And there are a lot more practical things to take into consideration in these visits than just the oooh, it's cosy. Not least the having to make friends with the people you're meeting there. Taking 5 minutes to size people up and decide if they are the sort of person who leaves the butter out, or cuts their toenails infront of the TV. Because this is what it comes down to in the end. A flatshare is a lot like a relationship; if things are going well, then the annoying habits of the other person don't bother you. But, in times of strife, you better hope the other person doesn't leave their wet towels draped over the back of a chair, or bite their nails, or cut their pubes in the kitchen sink.
Moreover, even if you decide a place isn't for you, you still have to deal with the interview rejection during the visit. You can't just say you don't like it straight out, just because it's tiny and mouldy and there's a hole in the wall, and sperms on the curtains. You have to pretend you're going to think about it. Which means you have to spend a thinking about it amount of time in the place before you can escape; all the while nodding appreciatively at the kitchen door because it seems to be attached to the wall quite securely, or the bathroom tiles because you can barely see the blood stains. It's hard work not insulting someone's charmless dump.
Indeed, if I wasn't so in love with rooms, I don't know if I'd even bother living in a house. Hopefully, though a new cranny is on the horizon, and I won't have to be polite to anyone every again. In case you hear of anything, ideally I'm looking for somewhere with a magic portal wardrobe and a talking spider, and a mezzanine. And steps somewhere. Probably to the mezzanine.