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One night I turned up at a new hostel in Edgware. It was gone midnight as I'd spent forever on a bus to save the cost of a Tube to Zone 4. The man behind reception knew my name already. "I thought it was you. You've stayed in a couple of the hostels I manage," he said, his comment hanging on my ears.I found one hostel in north-west London that was so shitty, so grotesque, so badly run that I could sneak in after midnight without the staff noticing I hadn't paid for a bed. Its ceilings were clapped out, with sheets of plaster peeling away. The mattresses were plastic-covered and thin. There were so many people in a room that the rising heat would condensate and drip on to you in the night.Once I was in I would hover around the door to a room, pretending to be on my phone or fetching something from my bag, then tailgate a real guest into the room. Being late at night it would be dark, so I'd quickly scan the room by phone light to spot an empty bed, then climb in as if it were mine. You couldn't book a bed after 11:59, so the hostel's website would show if there were spare beds. And there always were, because no one in their right mind would want to sleep there.READ: I Lived in a London Hostel for a Week to See If it Could Be the Cure to My Rising Rent
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