London Rental Opportunity of the Week: Live in a Castle????? Sort of?????

What is it? An "ex-castle", which really does err into the philosophical – can a castle stop being a castle? A bungalow can’t stop being a bungalow, unless you add another floor to it. A semi-detached can only stop being a semi-detached if you either cram another building next to it, terracing it in, or detach it fully by destroying the building next to it. Can a castle stop being a castle? It’s a fucking castle. Like: it’s a castle.
Where is it? St James' district in Westminster, sort of where Charing Cross station is, sort of sandwiched between the malls. There. (I have been on Google Maps and looked around and there are no visible castles).
What is there to do locally? You’re slap bang in the absolute dirt-worst part of London, because all you really have around you are long tree-lined roads that always have processions going down them, a hundred-thousand tourists all walking very slowly with their hands clasped behind their back, or a load of intricate ancient streets with doors so heavy and expensive you get shot by snipers just for having the temerity to knock on them, plus no good pubs, so I mean what exactly is the point—
Alright, how much are they asking? £1.6k a month.

Going to start by robbing you of your favourite thing in the world – my light, effortless, lyrical written content – and instead make you read this, in full, the listing for this particular property. See what you notice about this, questions will be at the bottom:

Questions, w/ marks:

• What can you tell me about the actual fucking property based on this sales copy? (1)
• Is it nothing? (1)
• What can you tell me about the district of St James where the property nominally is located (as based on this sales copy)? (5)
• Is it quite a lot? (1)
• Does it make you feel at all better to know that the 1st Earl of St Albans sort of lived sort of close to where you will be living, once, in like the 1660s? (1)
• Do you want to spend time considering how the £1,692 pcm monthly rent for this property, if transposed back in time to the aforementioned 1660s, would probably be about enough to buy this entire district in London, overpaying for it by hundreds of pounds? (1)
• Is it best not to think about that while you’re trying to microwave a discounted fish pie you got on the way home from work and intend to eat tonight, alone, sat on your bed, wondering what happened to you? (1)

Anyway, into the property. It says a lot about the soft edges of my outrage now that I can say, with a lot of confidence, "this is not the worst one we've ever had"—

—but also, very crucially, it is, still, bad: it’s glossy, and clean, and it’s been neatly designed to cover the fact that it’s a very tiny space suitable for one person, at best. It’s modern, and all the equipment looks like it works. But: is it cosy? No. Is the bathroom nice? It has a lot of exposed piping and I think you have to do some sideways crab-walking to close the door behind you comfortably, but yes, it’s nice enough. Is the kitchen nice? Again, sort of, but no: it has one of those weird electric two-hob set-ups, no visible fridge, a panel of tiling just isn’t there and the exposed foil insulation watches you, un-movingly, as you make yet another dreadful stir fry. Is there a dedicated front room? No, but there's a table and chairs in your bedroom.

Who, exactly, you would invite over to your flat to see how you live – to cram their shoulders together to fit through the small spaces that make it up, to look at you, pathetic, sat on the edge of your single bed – I do not know. "Yeah," you say, cheerfully. "So it’s right on the Mall, so that’s… that’s good." They say: "Where do you go for brunch around here?" You gaze at the newly-painted ceiling. "I mean, I can walk into town, so. I mean, it costs quite a lot more there and the queues are insane, but. I can do that." They nod, ahuh. "Is the road loud?" they ask, pointing to one of the busiest roads in the busiest cities in Europe. "Yes," you say, clicking on the air con. "Exceptionally loud, constantly."

They point to your single bed. "Do you ever have intercourse in that?" And you sigh and say: oh. Oh no. No intercourse for me, thanks. "Are you happy here?" they ask you, trying not to lean too far back on their chair in case they end up toppling into the kitchen. "Oh," you say, suddenly crying now, and not even photogenic, TV-ready crying – you know the one where just a single tear comes out of each eye, rolling softly down each wet cheek? Not that. Like, you are full on bawling, it is very embarrassing. "No," you say. "I'm paying £1,692 a month and I’m not even happy. I haven’t been happy for a single second since I have been here. I dread coming back to the horrible, grey place. I can't even have guests over. I hate my life! I hate my life! I hate this awful city, and I hate my life within it! I hate, hate, hate my life! I hate my life! I hate my LIFE!"

Still, though! A castle!

@joelgolby