So my couch surfing continues. Until I collect the keys to our new apartment on Wednesday, I am still officially homeless. I have, for the last week or so, been trawling around Manhattan throwing myself upon the mercy, charity and floors of every friend I have. Unfortunately, that mercy and charity is beginning to wear painfully thin.
Last night I was back on the streets. I had to hastily find alternative accommodation as it appeared my ongoing residency was beginning to destabilize a usually solid marriage. As space is generally of a premium in New York apartments, it can be a tall order accommodating another body. Living on top of one another is never easy and can lead to unforeseen tension. At least that is what I keep telling myself. It may be that my friend and his wife wife just don’t like me. But hey, that’s ridiculous right? what’s not to like? Doesn’t everyone want a genuine walking talking wisecracking English cliché to brighten up their New York apartment? At the moment I am generally being asked one question: “So, Mick, when do you pick up your keys?”
I have now moved on to couch number four. Fortunately, my next friend (my address book is being rapidly amended, well, abbreviated) lives in a brownstone on the Lower West Side. Thankfully, his building doesn’t have a concierge, so no more trying to explain that ‘yes, despite my appearance, I am actually staying in the building and no, I can’t remember where or with whom!’ Now there is nobody barring my way, and as long as I can remember yet another address and master yet another set of locks, I should be fine.
Oh, how I dream of my own bed! My wife definitely had the right idea when she skipped town to visit her folks. She was adamant she would not return until we had the keys to our new apartment. I was stubborn, she was right. But right now, even living with the in-laws is beginning to look attractive!