Ele Cooper reminisces about her student accommodation and asks whether living in shoddy properties is something everyone should go through.
When the trillionth student-accommodation-related press release hit my inbox this morning, I had one of those misty-eyed, thought-bubble moments reminiscing about my own university digs. The memories induced a strange combination of gut-clenching nausea and rose-tinted nostalgia.
First, there were halls. I was lucky: I had an en-suite bathroom so never had to experience the horror of mass toilet-sharing with complete strangers, most of whom have never had to clean a lavatory in their life. In fact, we even had a cleaner – Tracy – who had the patience of a saint and the grim smile of a crime scene investigator, sorting our bedrooms out on a daily basis without a glimmer of complaint.
It was the absolute antithesis of grotty student living, even if one guy did insist on keeping raw chicken in the cupboard.
Of course, we merrily skipped into the trap that every fresher falls into: we believed the mischievous whispers declaring that if we didn’t gang up with other people by Christmas at the very latest and vow to live with them the following September, we’d end up living on our own – or worse, with that weird smelly person that no one liked – in our second year.
By January, we’d signed a tenancy agreement.
We’d actually found an okay place. The features that sing loudest in my memory are the lovely tiled hallway, the ancient carpets which showed every thread or speck of dust that hit them (not ideal in a house where 80 per cent of the residents “don’t believe” in vacuuming) and a quite extraordinary antique mirror.
Seamus, our garrulous Irish landlord, told us he’d found the mirror hidden behind a false wall which he’d knocked through when he was refurbishing the property. Gilt-framed and at least 15 feet tall, it must have been worth hundreds, or even thousands, of pounds. With hindsight, I’d imagine it would also have caused a health and safety inspector considerable alarm, seeing as it was positioned halfway down a flight of steep, twisting stairs.
Granted, the house was next door to a working men’s club, the car park of which provided a fittingly bleak venue for many a drunken brawl. Our back garden was a no man’s land of empty bottles that had been hurled over the wall, plus the odd inexplicable child’s sock.
But I was fine with the slight sense of danger that pervaded whenever I stepped out the front door – the only real problem was the people I was living with.
All perfectly pleasant on a one-to-one basis, en masse our previously Waltons-esque posse quickly disintegrated to the point where, just one month into the tenancy, if one faction entered a room, the other would exit post haste.
Seven horrbily awkward months ensued and, while bridges have been mended now (seven years later), I do not look back on that year with any fondness.
The house, however, was so much better than any other student property I’d seen that I decided to stay in it for my final year, this time living with people who I’d actually had enough time to get to know properly. It worked much, much better.
A few years later, the Mirror House already a distant memory, I was accepted onto a postgraduate course. My initial jubilation quickly evaporated when I realised that this would mean house-hunting in a city I’d only visited once.
I was flooded with dread – until, that is, I opened a letter from the university saying that it was holding a house-hunting weekend during which prospective postgraduates could meet each other and find accommodation together.
One month later, following some toe-curlingly embarrassing ice-breaker activities at said house-hunting jolly, I’d met five people I thought were ‘alright’ enough to live with. Luckily, the feeling was mutual. But imagine a couple of hundred 20-somethings hitting the market on the same day, all looking for similar rental properties in similar neighbourhoods. Far from ideal.
Luckily, we’d spotted a lovely-looking pad in the listings given to us by the university’s in-house lettings agent. Unluckily, we weren’t the only ones who fell in love with it and put in an offer.
You could have cut the atmosphere in the agent’s office with a knife, each party of six standing at opposite ends of the room, arms folded, John Wayne-style panpipe music echoing eerily on the surround-sound speakers.
Okay, I made that last bit up. But it was tense. Horribly tense.
Callum, the agent, had already said that bidding wars were against company policy, so we were completely baffled as to how he’d make his decision.
My newfound friends and I exchanged panicked glances, silently communicating with blinks and nose twitches: “Does the agent look gay or straight – which of us should flirt with him? Has anyone got any connections at Cardiff Stadium – can we hook him up with some rugby tickets? Does anyone have a weighted coin in case we have to toss for it? Andy, give him your Wispa!”
Alas, we never found out Callum’s sexual orientation: he decided to settle it based on who had booked their viewing first.
Andy the Wispa owner had. I’m not sure whether his uncanny resemblance to Phil Spencer had granted him a divine connection to the property guru, but somehow instinct had told him to book the viewing the night before, just before the agent’s office closed. The other suckers hadn’t booked in until the following morning.
And thus history was made.
The property itself was gorgeous: it was newly refurbished, had lovely big rooms, was crowned by a fabulous loft conversion and featured something we christened “The Space Pod” (in reality just a corner shower with curved sliding door – the height of luxury to us at the time).
But the house’s charms extended way beyond shower cubicles: according to Barbara, our oh-so-well-spoken but slightly scary landlady, Rolf Harris’s parents lived in it prior to his birth in Australia and the artist himself had visited with a film crew a couple of years before to check out his heritage. How’s that for a claim to fame?
In fact, the only bad thing that happened to us in that house was finding fungal organisms – which I hysterically dubbed “mushroom creatures” – growing in the bathroom.
But really, compared to what a lot of my friends had to put up with – extreme damp, frequent burglaries, broken appliances and a lack of central heating were the most common complaints – I had a pretty easy ride, and I know it.
Which leads me to wonder what you think about shoddy student accommodation: is it unfair and a borderline abuse of young people’s human rights, or is living in shabby digs a rite of passage that every British student should go through?
Post your comments below or tweet @AboutUs to have your say. And whatever you do, keep your chicken in the fridge.
