(Cat not included)
Welcome to my Blog at The Lair Of The Camrose
It’s my bespoke stomping ground in the Intermatrix. You are very welcome, and thanks for stopping by…
This time, an episode of Studenthouse CSI
I want the best for my kids, but sometimes it’s confusing as regards what that really is.
They are now suitably installed in their second year houses off-campus, but waiting to be properly Locked Down when the inevitable happens and there’s a Surge at their respective uni.
On that, I’m not clear in the now of COVID why students have been mustered on site at their temples of learning and social enrichment when the learning can be done online using that wonderful Internet-thing that has just been invented; and the social part is looking increasingly like a mini-Lockdown for them in a damp house with people they don’t know very well. It’s good for the landlords (including the unis), I suppose, so we can all be happy about that, right?
Delivering my son to his sparkly new house which he’s going to share with three other guys – grunge alert – WHOOP! WHOOP! WHOOP! – was a splendid way not to worry about Corona for a bit. But not for good reasons.
He and his mates chose the house after as much research as you can reasonably expect from nineteen-or-so-year-olds…
Can we get Virgin Media? Yes. Tick.
Does Deliveroo come here? Yes. Tick
Is there a bedroom for me? Yes. Tick.
Where do I sign?
Last weekend was the first time that we’d seen it when we delivered him there. Mother muttered that it needed a little TLC from the outside. For that I assume she meant Take Loads of Care when walking round it. It has a gas oven where the oven knob boinggged off when turned, inviting an inspection of the rank interior of the appliance. We politely declined that invitation. Especially with a lit match. We are ordering crime scene tape – DO NOT CROSS! – from Amazon to stick over the doors and an electric oven from Amazon. He is studying History, not Bomb Disposal.
The encrusted smoke alarms provided extra excitement – Amazon will be as delighted as the Science Museum.
Then a trip around the fluorescent pink tiles of the kitchen for the kitchen-diner experience, followed by the Laundry Room – a space which has an ever-flowing tap like a permanent water feature, and a carpeted downstairs loo that doesn’t bear thinking about. As bedrooms go, his is fine, the only limitation being the black curtains with a yellow flower pattern that looks like coven meetings are held there for right-on Satan worshippers, standing room only.
Don’t get me wrong, the house is big, airy and fine when the booby traps have been de-fused – it was equally fine back in the 1960s when any maintenance work was last done to it. If this is approved or recommended by the accommodation people at the uni, they need to run the odd check every decade or so to ensure the place isn’t life-threatening. Just a thought.
So, just to be clear, I don’t expect my offspring to live in a palace for uni, but I do expect the place of their first real full-on contact with the Real World not to conspire to blow them up, smoke them like kippers or drown them. And yes, voting with your feet is a way of dealing with it, but when accommodation is difficult to get, that’s going to fly a lot less well than those witches…