Basement

At the beginning of the month, I moved to a (yet another) new apartment. The defining feature that I want to note here is not the high sunny rooms, or the carved fireplace or the sun-room. No, the thing you really have to understand to know the character of our new place is our deeply terrifying basement.

When they constructed our house in the 1880s, they obviously built the basement factoring in the height of your average nineteenth-century dweller. Now, though, thanks to modern vitamins and minerals, there is no way for someone taller than your typical modern four-year old to maneuver their way down our cramped staircase in any sort of comfort.

And when Wayne, our elderly (sans cell phone or email address) landlord first showed us the basement? Propped next to our future washer and dryer was an actual painting of what can only be described as a sexy vampire bride. The painting is long-gone, but still hanging out down there are: the creepy fenced-off area (which either hides dead virgins, or frothing hobos), a lone boot (from, I assume, the house's original owner in the 1880s) and an impressive collection of horrible, ugly rugs (which Wayne offered to my roommate and I for the decor of our apartment).

Needless to say, the only rule of the apartment so far is the laundry-buddy system. Well, that and that at least one bottle of wine must always be on hand in the fridge.

More again soon assuming that I haven't been attacked by the zombies, the rat king, the aliens and the hobos all living in my basement.