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? Do you ever consider – when you are stood on the ground, or occupying a space, or lying in a hotel bed – do you ever get the intrusive thought: how many people have died on the exact spot I am in right now? I get it, all the time. Plague sufferers. Peasants worked down to the nub. Lords who partook of too much food and succumbed on the trail to gout. Billions of people have come before us, and all of them have died, and there are so few places to ritually do such a thing (die) – which might, if you think about it, explain some of our cultural resistance to assisted dying facilities: we evolved a lifespan longer than nature ever intended, but socially we never caught up, and we have a ritual for when we are born and when we are married and when we are buried, but we don’t have a ritual for dying; we resist flying to Switzerland to be demolished because we do not have hundreds of years of death tradition underpinning it; we need to invent our own at an astonishing rate – that they have, naturally, overlapped and died where you are now. The house you are in: do you think anyone’s died in it? It’s been around for a few decades at least, probably. You are unlikely to be the first person to live in it. Did someone die in the corner? Did someone flop dead in an armchair? Did someone spasm every muscle in their body at once and rise from the bed, stiff and long and dead? You never know, do you. Something to think about, though, every second you exist, for the rest of your natural life.
What is there to do locally? I suppose I am staring into the existential abyss, because a VIP mezzanine flat in Notting Hill does not, simply, “happen”. A house was built here, once. It was grand. People lived in it and grew wealthy in it and died in it. Society evolved. The population of the city stayed the same, but the need to segment space – protect it for the wealthy, and slice it down into tiny portions for the un-wealthy – became apparent. Landlordism became more rife. Houses were segmented into floors, floors became flats, addresses were amended from “111” to “111A” to “111B thru D”. We created smaller spaces for ourselves. And, little by little, it emerged, in Notting Hill: a tiny flat with a tiny balcony and a tiny special shelf for your bed to go on, clocking in at—
Alright, how much are they asking? £2,362 pcm. Every bad decision you ever made was built upon the bones of the dead. You check Tinder in the shadow of a battlefield.
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