The Rule of Three

You know the old adage, the rule of three? Bad things happen in a trio. It’s been four days since I had a functioning toilet, 14 days since I took a proper shower in my flat, and 138 days since I had television. Today, things are going to turn around at Flat 6 Roding House.

Since October, when I moved into my new flat, the place has been cursed. Over the same period of time, I’ve taken a hiatus from this blog and created a new one, Foodflash.me, where I write about my culinary experiences in London. I’m not returning to ‘A Canadian in London’ with the sole purpose of breaking the curse. But part of me does hope it works.

My last post on this blog was a couple of days before I moved into the new flat. For the most part, living here has been a grounding experience, and I mean that both physically and emotionally. I’m finally living the non-nomadic life again, sharing a flat with two fantastic roommates, and enjoying this shared space, this shared kitchen, and a room to call my own.

But lately, as the honeymoon period (that inevitable dawn that reveals reality) comes to an end, life in the new flat has started to crumble around us. In the things that really matter, everything is just as perfect as it was when we first moved in. My new roomies and I are getting to know each other, and it’s been truly great. But the logistics, the basics, the everyday essentials, have taken a bit of a nosedive.

To be fair, the 138 days without television hasn’t affected us too much. Basically, the three of us are not technical-minded people, so the fact that we brought in an old TV and failingly attempted to connect it to the aerial hasn’t been too much of a drag. I miss the BBC, but I can’t make sense of the digital box, the male-to-female connections or the numerous cords leading into the wall and out to nowhere. The TV repairman who came in last week claimed our aerial connection is good. I bought a universal remote to set the damn thing up, but there is still no signal on our television.

So just as our landlord, our estate agent and the property management team (I know, why so many people to manage this little flat?) were bombarded by our numerous requests to fix the TV, fate would have it that so many, rather more imperative, aspects of our home began to fall apart.

Almost two weeks ago, after suffering through 24 hours sans water (no sign of it in the sinks, the shower or the toilet), the shower suddenly started bleeding out. I don’t believe it’s related to the water outage, just an unlucky coincidence. But it seems the cord that connects our tap to the showerhead is leaking water, and thus the few drops that make the trip through the cord to spill out from the head are pathetic. The time to take a shower has doubled, and I usually end up rinsing shampoo out of my hair by kneeling under a running tap, where the water is still plentiful. Most of the time, I just shower at my local pool instead.

We have a call in to fix the shower. The appropriate parties have been notified. But, since our landlord/estate agent/property managers are very close to useless, we have been waiting for 14 days. I’ve been assured that, before 4pm this afternoon, the cavalry is coming.

But meanwhile, and this is the third curse, the toilet has decided to stop working. Now, I do love escaping into television, but I have the Internet on my laptop and I can survive without British broadcasting. I like to be clean, but (let’s face it) I can live with just a few drips of water. Where I do draw the line is four days without a toilet that flushes. It’s inhumane. I grew up with cottages, with camping, with outhouses. If I have to take it outside, and just use what I’ve got, I will do it. But, in central London, these options are not plentiful. So I wait.

Thank god the plumber is coming to look at the shower this afternoon. He hasn’t been notified yet of the secondary job, but you can bet he’ll hear about it when he gets here. And the TV? Well, I’ll experiment with it for a few more days, but you can also bet that the TV repairman is going to hear from the frustrated Canadian girl at Flat 6 Roding House.

Life looks better when I'm escaping into my food blog. I eat out, I react to a food issue, I rant about some chef whose food I like (or don’t). But life (basically, living) and managing a flat again, especially in London, where nothing is ever easy, is a real challenge. And I just wanted to convey that, to let you know it’s not all foie gras, medium-rare steaks and duck confit. It’s also broken televisions, dripping showerheads and plugged toilets. Life is grand.