Moving On

by Sheryl-Lee Kerr

The trendy hedgehog-haired lad threading his way up the stairs ahead of me

summed up our mutual dilemma with an arched eyebrow and dramatic whisper.

“I don't know, dah-ling,” my rival renter declared. “That carpet ... is

there such a thing as TOO pink?”

Indeed. At any other time, I would have joined this modern-day philosopher

in colour-charting the shades of fairy floss.

But, when moving, you suddenly discover your capacity to compromise is far

greater than you ever realised. The longer it takes to find your perfect

home, the more you start telling yourself the quest for absolute

perfection is just SO shallow anyway. Corners are gradually cut. Then

chainsawed off.

Besides, time was one thing I didn't have, having just transferred to

Perth from Adelaide. You discover, when given the choice of mounting hotel

bills or seeing pink as muted salmon, muted salmon wins every time.

The thing is, I had begun with so much more time. And I had been

organised, too. For weeks, I'd gone online from SA and scoured the WA

listings, then emailed real estate agents, asking about properties I

liked. Which was where my grand plan came to a screeching halt _ 15 emails

to 15 different agents, and I got one response. So endeth the virtual

renting experience.

Upon arrival, I discovered the tight Perth rental market is not for the

fainthearted. Having rented in Brisbane, Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide, I

say this with some authority.

If you have a pet, you're virtually dead in the water. And if you're a

young bloke with party-aged mates, order the floaties now.

For example, I met a well-heeled, earnest chap who, with his two mates,

were ploughing through a list of 130 properties. Yes, 130. Yet he feared

finding anything at all. Why? Turns out they were all young, male and

engineers. Talk about your three strikes.

My list of potential properties was considerably shorter. Six places a

week usually met my wishlist.

My flatmate and I raised our budget $20 a week in virtually the first five

minutes after inspection of one place we could only refer to in hushed

tones as Ground Zero.

A fortnight went by, and I had stood on nannygoat steep hills and under

musty garages, peered over brush fences and been bailed up by suspicious

neighbours, threatening to sic a hairy rat-sized dog called Pete on me.

But on the fourth week, I found myself back at a familiar house.

Originally rejected for its vast size, to my now jaded eyes it had

everything - three beds, aircon, a fantastic location, great property

agent. I cheerfully signed up.

Oh yes, it also came with a noticeably pink carpet. Or as I lovingly

prefer to call it, ``muted salmon''.

© Sheryl-Lee Kerr and The Sunday Times.

Fist published in The Sunday Times in April. 2003.