I'll pitch a tent on a roundabout

Flat hunting is no fun when you’re bone idle, says Paul Carter. Maybe it’s time to look for office accommodation

I’m a little distracted. Unfortunately, I’m in the middle of that most delightful of social chores: flat hunting.

Trying to find somewhere to live in London is not enjoyable at the best of times, but when you have to factor in finding somewhere that’s accessible to the likes of me, it becomes as appealing as an Ann Summers party at Max Mosley’s house.

Needless to say, because of this, bone-idle-itis has got the better of me, and now I’m starting to panic. There isn’t much time left before I get booted out, and I don’t think I would cope well with the streets.

Having said that, I was always taken by the story of a Wolverhampton man who lived on a roundabout on the ring road for 30 years and became a local icon.

I quite like the idea of that – people could call me the Littlest Hobo and I could live on a traffic island. Or a mini-roundabout. I could have my own theme tune and the locals could shower me with gifts as I selflessly spent my time solving their mundane life predicaments. Or maybe not.

We’ve actually had a bit of a reshuffle here at Disability Now Towers, and it got me thinking that maybe I should knock on the head the idea of finding somewhere new and accessible to live, and just move into the office. I seem to spend half my life here anyway…

It’s not exactly paradise. In fact, it’s more Peter Shilton than Paris Hilton, but it has half-decent facilities, and being somewhere with lots of disabled people in it, it’s quite good access-wise.

There’s no washing machine, but there’s a dishwasher in the kitchen, and if it cleans plates I don’t see why it couldn’t handle the odd pair of pants as well.

It would pose a couple of logistical problems, though. What would happen when I took time off? I don’t think my estimable colleagues would enjoy coming into work first thing in the morning to find me wrapped in a duvet playing Sonic the Hedgehog, surrounded by the previous night’s detritus.

Also, the cleaner might never recover from the shock of finding a sole artificial leg poking out from under a desk (I used to do that to the infant school kids when I was younger. Hours of fun, and no doubt many more hours of therapy when they were older).

In the meantime, I’ll keep scouring the property pages, searching for the perfect bachelor pad that doesn’t look like it was designed for an NBA basketball team.

I don’t fancy my chances. See you on the roundabout.