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What is living in London like? Hell. Here’s proof, beyond all doubt, that renting in London is a nightmare.
Where is it? In "Harrow Weald", which the internet describes as "the northernmost part of the town of Harrow" – so not Harrow, but the lesser bit of Harrow, if you can imagine such a thing – and the descriptive photograph is just a variety of emergency services vehicles, parked diagonally across a recently bloodied main road.
What is there to do locally? I would assume: go to the nearby all-boys school and harangue the children coming out of there. People are always like, "Oh, no, don't bully children, don't bully the sweet little children," but Harrow's alumni includes James Blunt and Benedict Cumberbatch, two posh cucks, meaning the boys graduating out of there right now are i. unlikely to be rocking any sort of weaponry at all – if you went and harassed the teenagers coming out of the secondary school I graduated from, some weird kid with a weapon made out of old metal rulers would get you on the ground and the rest of the hard boys would throw Devil Bangers round your head while joyfully smoking, and you'd have to hope a sufficiently hard deputy head walks by in the next ten to 20 minutes because they won't stop howling until you cry – and ii. They are almost certain to grow up into unbearable little bastards anyway, cabinet members and deliberately cultivated Soho gadflys, so going outside the school gates and calling them "wet-necked little cunts" now won't really have any sort of psychological impact on them long-term – they will still end up dating whoever the next generation's equivalent of Lily Cole will be – but will feel very satisfying, to you, currently. There is nothing else to do in Harrow, I checked.
Alright, how much are they asking? £1,000 p.c.m.
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I have been thinking a lot about London flats recently because I am locked in mine and you are locked in yours, and so, if you're anything like me, you now know every single inch of the place, intimately. I know the sound of the upstairs neighbour doing the Joe Wicks P.E. class every morning, ba–dum ba–dum ba–dum, the slow heartbeat rhythm of my isolation mornings. I know the sounds of the two boys gleefully playing football with a flyaway on the rubber-floored balcony downstairs, an early afternoon noise bomb that heralds my lunchtime. I know what the bathroom ceiling looks like. I know the precise schedule of the weekly fire alarms. I know which marks on the floor are new (done by me.) and which were there when we moved (done by some cunt.), so I know which ones I will have to argue are "legitimate wear and tear" during a contract tussle in about ten months. I know the corners, the light fittings, the inside of the kitchen cabinets, the shelves that get dust, the windowsills that accumulate dead leaves from dry plants. I know which dark corners, under cabinets or between wardrobes, I can squeeze something into should I need to store it but not use it anytime soon: a sleeping bag, maybe, an excess of shoes. I have been staring at every molecule of this flat for the last three weeks, and I know how it breathes, how it bleeds, and the noises it makes as it goes to sleep. I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it.
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