Photos via Rightmove
What is living in London like? Hell. Here’s proof, beyond all doubt, that renting in London is a nightmare.
Where is it? Stroud Green, a little enclave in the Haringey–Crouch Hill–Crouch End triangle, where, technically, you can exist as a poor person, but everyone else there (un-poor people: £400 yellow cagoules over Breton jumpers with two grand prams and KeepCup lattes) can somehow sense that you are poor, smell it on you, see it on you like dirt, and so they cross the roads to avoid you, they shun you like the medievals might have shunned a witch, they don't invite you to their closed-road street parties, they knock on your door at 9PM and ask that you keep the noise down because it's keeping their child awake, even though you're sat alone in your house reading in silence and they live eight doors away. "Yes, well, you know," they say. "And don't think we haven't noticed the shoddy job you've been doing with the recycling." Have they… been going through your recycling bag? You diligently split the tins from the cardboard and leave the green see-thru double-knotted on the kerb at midnight the night before the trucks come. Are they… sneaking out in the dead of night to check you've not put an orange juice carton in there? "I found a wad of tin foil in there the other week. A decent rinse and you could have re-used that. The council have been notified and I sent a memorandum to the Stroud Green mailing list." Welcome to the neighbourhood!
What is there to do locally? There seems to be an annual "Stroud Green Festival" where lads in grandad-collar shirts holding guitars and women who think natural deodorant works, holding violins, meet up to play classical music by candlelight. My traditional ideas of hell have always been quite close-minded – fire, sulphur, brimstone, torture – but I've just realised that, actually, personally for me, it's attending Stroud Green Festival, sitting in a pew for six hours while someone's mum wears a fun brooch and sings alto at me. Genuinely, genuinely, genuinely: I would rather you Edward the Second me instead of that. Warm it up—
Alright, how much are they asking? £1,350 pcm, or £17k a year.
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So no, someone made this in the same pragmatic way everyone with an oar in it plays the London property market: with a naked, untethered, insatiable greed. How could you sleep knowing that, a few feet away from you, in what is more-or-less your garage, someone is paying £1,395 of their monthly income to live and bathe and sleep? How can you, in good conscious, know that those little knocking and clonking noises of life you hear coming from the garage (and upstairs garage) next door are coming from your tenant, who you are squeezing for an extortionate amount of rent for the sheer luxury of living alone, in Stroud Green, in a garage conversion? And also, with respect: who is earning enough that they can comfortably part with £1,395 in rent a month, and chooses to spend that money on living in a garage? No, that's victim-blaming, and unbecoming of this column.Burn the house adjacent to the garage down and shoot the landlord. Spend your rent money on bullets this month. It's the only way we’re going to sort this mess all out.@joelgolby