Photos via Zoopla
What is living in London like? Hell. Here’s proof, beyond all doubt, that renting in London is a nightmare.
Where is it? I suppose there is mediocrity in catastrophe, and, having never truly experienced one before, that has come as a surprise to me. Out there, outside the windows and doors of my flat, people are getting sick and dying, and yet still my most immediate concerns are, like, 'It's quite hot in this room, should I get the fan going (loud) or should I open a window (pollen, dust),' and, 'What can I cook tonight that isn’t one of the same five meals I've cooked every night for ten weeks,' and, 'Does this mask I bought on Etsy look cool, or does it look shonky and homemade, like a primary school nativity costume?' I have a pair of shorts coming in the post today and I'm on edge about whether I can get downstairs for that delivery before the rogue mail-thief in our building gets there first. That sort of thing. It's odd how everything at once feels deeply relevant and entirely inconsequential. Covid is a cliff we cannot climb.
What is there to do locally? I mean, in among all that, in among all the World Events and History We Are Living Through, does it really matter if this one flat in Shoreditch is fit to live in or not? What decisions the fitters and landlords and property developers and people who have lived there before have made in creating the space as it is? Does any of this matter? Will the things that matter every day in Normal Life (a transient space we will never, truly, return to) matter anymore in the post-covid landscape? Or will we have to re-order what "matter" looks, feels and tastes like? What will it look like when we are all allowed back outside?
Alright, how much are they asking? I mean I just I woULD GIVE EVERYTHING I HAVE TO GO TO THE PUB WITH MY MATES RIGHT NOW. FOUR PINTS, SOME SPICY NUTS, A FLOOD IN THE GENTS, A MATE OF SOMEONE YOU ARE SITTING WITH HAS RECOGNISED HIM AND COME OVER AND SAID HELLO AND IT IS CLEAR FROM THE BODY LANGUAGE OF YOUR FRIEND – NOT GOT UP, TWISTED TO FACE, NOT INVITED THE PERSON TO SIT WITH US, ETC – THAT HE DOES NOT REALLY LIKE THE GUY ENOUGH TO ACTUALLY BLEND HIS AND OUR GROUPS INTO ONE MECHA-GROUP, BUT THE GUY WHO HAS COME OVER HAS NOT REALISED THIS, HIS ERODED ROLE IN THE WIDER FRIENDSHIP, AND SO HE IS TALKING, ENDLESSLY – "GOD WHAT HAPPENED AT AGP AFTER I LEFT? IS DANIELLE STILL GOING ON ABOUT THOSE MEETING ROOMS?" – AND YOU, THE REST OF THE GROUP, ARE JUST WATCHING THIS CRAP CONVERSATION HAPPEN, BETWEEN TWO MEN, ONE STANDING, ONE SITTING, NONE OF YOU STARTING YOUR OWN CONVERSATIONS BECAUSE THE MOMENT TO DO THAT PASSED LONG AGO (WHEN THE GUY FIRST CAME OVER AND TAPPED YOUR FRIEND ON THE SHOULDER AND SAID "THOUGHT I'D SEE YOU HERE" YOU ALL STOPPED ABRUPTLY TO GIVE HIM THE REQUISITE 15 TO 20 SECONDS IT SHOULD TAKE HIM TO HAVE THIS SOCIAL INTERACTION, BUT NOW WE ARE FOUR MINUTES IN AND COUNTING AND HE SIMPLY HAS. NOT. STOPPED.) AND SO YOU ARE ALL THERE, IN SILENCE, WATCHING THIS ABSOLUTE FUCKING CAR CRASH OF A CONVERSATION UNFOLD. IT'S AGONY. IT'S LIKE HAVING ALL YOUR BONES REMOVED BY A SURGEON. I WOULD PAY UP TO AND INCLUDING ONE BILLION POUNDS TO EXPERIENCE IT AGAIN. £802 pcm.
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