House hunting

Having evacuated my former  dungeon dwellings in baron’s court, my future flat mates and I have begun the thankless task of trying to find somewhere else to live. Not that I should be complaining, I have been kindly lent a flat in Primrose hill for the interim, a part of London where the air smells of money.

I saw a television on the road last week which I am convinced was thrown out of the window by Kate Moss (it has been her birthday) and have been witness to none other than Nick Grimshaw (radio personality and club rat) and John Mcririck (Racing commentator and celebrity big brother contestant who looks akin to a walrus smoking a cigar.)

The downside to living in an area where the streets do literally appear to be paved with gold is that they don’t even have civilian supermarkets. The trek to the shop we call Oprah’s foods when we realise that we have forgotten to buy loo roll and will have to buy some made of silk is never pleasant. It does appear however that we have gotten rather comfortable…

As edgy as the move to the East looked on paper, the harsh realisation that we cannot afford to live in a warehouse with a meat hook hanging outside has taken some getting used to. Such is our desperation to find a home, I have found myself traversing London on my lunch break to parts of London reminiscent of Gaza.To the person who told me that Whitechapel is quaint and Dickensian. Shame on you. The only thing Dickensian about that place is the open sewers, people dying on the roads and the potential for murder.

I ask two things of my future home; that there are not a collection of wreaths on the road outside, reminding us of our proximity to murder mile and that I am able to swing a cat in the living area…that said, I have also developed a hateful aversion to the raised wallpaper that so many of the flats we’ve viewed have displayed. Why anyone would want their wallpaper to look as though millions of maggots are breeding underneath, I will never know.

And so, after another long day of looking at potential murder scenes I might be lucky enough to rent I have put all of my faith in a man named Stephano. All I can hope is that I wont be crawling back to Fulham with tail between my legs, hoping the sloaney pony will take me back.