London Rental Opportunity of the Week: A Kitchen Made of Wire in Paddington!
Struggling to think why anyone would want to live in Paddington in the first place tbqhwym.
(Photo via Openrent)
What is it? Necessarily it is a studio apartment, but by the state of the exposed cables, the exposed skirting board, the wireframe kitchen unit and the sagging, joyless bed, I am inclined to say it's "a crime scene, directly after a ransacking";
Where is it? Paddington, the Euston of the west;
What is there to do locally? Paddington is just a sprawling train station with an esoteric interchange, a museum dedicated to a made-up bear and yet another one-size-fits-all glossy London street food market invented to try to lure tourists and food influencers, and that is it. Buy a skull-sized vegan donut and throw yourself in a canal. That is what there is to do in Paddington;
Alright, how much are they asking? £1,300 pcm;
I often think of dying in my sleep, and how pleasant that will be, and that is because my bed is a haven, a paradise, nirvana in blankets, and because I have 2 x special expensive pillows made of this strange bouncy sort of foam material that does not overheat when you sleep on it and fully supports your neck; 1 x duvet that cost me entirely too much from John fucking Lewis; 3 x blankets or quilts of various thicknesses and qualities that can be layered and unlayered according to the needs of the sleeper and the temperate climate of the room at night; 1 x premium-quality memory foam mattress topper from Groupon which, ngl, was an absolute ball-ache to haul home from work, I don’t know why I had it sent here; 1 x Egyptian cotton bedsheet w/ cover and pillow cases. Every time I go to sleep I cuddle up and wish for death, honestly. What a glorious place to be, my bed is. What a simply fantastic place to die.
In related news:
Longterm fans (???????????) of this column will recognise the calling card of the London property agent, here: two small towels folded neatly (-ish: these particular towels are actually quite carelessly folded) on the bed to suggest a hotel continental-style way of living, to truss up a shitty west London bedsit in the manner of a Parisian chamber. You can imagine ambassadors sleeping here, can't you? "M-my gosh!" an ambassador says, walking into this set-up. "I— it can’t be! Two small pink towels from Primark or maybe the homeware section of a Big Sainsbury's! The luxury! The unimaginable luxury! Are we at the Ritz?"
But also, please pay attention to the bed: two flat pillows; one thin single duvet stretched over a double-width mattress; the mattress, raw beneath, sagging onto the two sad box frames; the general air of misery about the whole vista. Yes, we all want to die in bed, prone and comfortable. Apart from this bed. This bed would be a bad place to die.
I'm focusing too much on dying in bed: we haven't even got to the meat of this flat, which is the— well, I hesitate to use a word as strong as "kitchen", but there’s certainly a lot of metal frame doing a sort of impression of a kitchen:
Briefly imagine your life in this flat: you could run a sink full of water above an exposed pipe; store your one pan on a shelf beneath it; heat said pan on a Buzzfeed Tasty-style induction hob; go around a small bathroom alcove to gain access to your shower; walk sideways between your kitchen wireframe and the sofa that is inexplicably there, because you cannot walk directly into your flat from the front door at a normal gait; stare at your mess of black cables and what appears to be a fucking wall-mounted Megadrive as part of your entertainment system; put your fucking net curtains up properly; figure out a way to actually open your wardrobe doors while standing in front of them, because I can’t see any possible way of doing that; store things on your inexplicably huge and ominous French dresser; glue your skirting board back on; text your friends that no, you can’t come out tonight, you’re spending £1,300 a month to live here and you can’t afford to come out for pints; text your friends no, no don’t come over, honestly lads, you don’t have to come over with beers, there’s not really room for any—; ah, you’re all here, OK; yeah no if— just move that small pile of clothes off the bed – it’s easier for me to sleep next to a small pile of clothes than actually open the wardrobe every morning, you know how it is – yeah no, put it down on the floor with those pink towels; yeah, uh, no there’s no fridge so I can’t really cool these beers down but uhhh— maybe I could fill the bath with cold water and put them in there?; "How do I wash my clothes?" Heh, good question: clothes really don't need washing as often as you think, really, and also there’s a laundrette like only two tube stops over; "Why do I have an enormous and unnecessarily intimidating dresser in the corner that is seemingly only there to hold an iron I have, despite there being absolutely no visible ironing board in the entire house?" Hehe, another good one. Listen – boys I’m bushed! I absolutely have to sleep! Haha, see ya; See ya;
Yeah: sob yourself to sleep in your sagging hell bed and pray for Paddington to explode or, better, death.