Photos via Gumtree
What is living in London like? Hell. Here’s proof, beyond all doubt, that renting in London is a nightmare.
Where is it? We never confront the idea of limbo, enough, I don’t think. Heaven and Hell are a very accepted binary – there are good people (Heaven) and bad people (Hell), with no disambiguation in between, and when we die (when the jet black abyss rises up to claim us, with a thunderous whoosh), when we die, blink, gone, dead, we are taken instantly to the gates of either, for the tour. “Welcome to Heaven,” Saint Peter says, at the gates, as buoyant little clouds fizz around you (the sun, of course, is shining). “Everyone from life who you loved is here, waiting for you. Your family, your friends, your departed pets.” “Do I have to go to the toilet, Sir Peter?” you ask him. “It’s Saint Peter,” he smiles, beatifically, “and no.” “If I don’t have to shit and piss, does that mean I don’t get to eat and drink, either?” you say, and he smiles again. “There is no need for food up here,” he says, “you’re in Heav—” “Okay, but what if I like sandwiches? What if I like eating sandwiches? And drinking beer? You’re telling me I never get to eat a sandwich again? Ever? And that’s the good one? That’s the good option?” Saint Peter talks into a little walkie-talkie he has clipped to his robe, for a second. It emits a heavenly skkrr. “You— I— my child, you simply have no need of sandwiches in Heaven, for all your needs are met—” “Okay, but what if I want a sandw—” “You may eat sandwiches if you wish, child, but you shall find that you have no need for—” “Take me to the sandwich platter. Take me to Heaven’s Subway. I lived a good life, now take me to the deli meat spread.”
What is there to do locally? Or Hell, I suppose, which is worse on paper but has a spicy edge about it that makes it (to me, at least) sound more fun. “Welcome to HELL,” a vibrant red lesser demon says, while a rock lick plays, screechingly, forever. “You’re in HELL, brother!” “Do I get to shit and piss here?” “As much as you want!” “What’s the sandwich situation?” “They are filled with a thousand tortures!” I’ve eaten from the Boots Meal Deal fridge before and lived. Take me to Hell, mate. At least the fun ones are down here. I’d rather hang out with The Krays, forever, than Cliff Richard for one single day—
Alright, how much are they asking? I suppose we got theological there because the reality is this: limbo, the cruel grey netherworld between the two binaries of good and evil, is here, already, on Earth, and we are wading through a thick fog of it, just the same thing every single day – wake up again and brush your teeth again and have your breakfast again and check your email again, again and again and again forever – and only when we die (the abyss, the darkness, whoosh) do we feel any sense of peace, even if we’re condemned to eat spider sandwiches in Hell, because at least, come on, at least it’s something different—
Did you run out of space to answer your usual format questions at the start and have to invent a previous unheard-of fifth question, this one, in which to fit the actually quite pertinent information before the article (proper) starts? Yes I did.
What is it? It’s a very small studio flat in—
Where is it? I was saying where it was! It is in—
What is there to do locally? IF YOU LET ME FINISH I WILL TELL YOU IT IS IN TOTTENHA—
Alright, how much are they asking? —M ONE THOUSAND AND SIXTY-SEVEN POUNDS PER CALENDAR MONTH.
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