We danced on the table one last time on Thursday. Don’t tell the flatmates who were away — it isn’t really allowed any more. But, given I’m leaving my flat of the last three years, we thought we should mark the occasion. The owner is selling to help get his children on the property ladder, and three of us are heading to other places in the city. So we forced ourselves up for a final tentative shuffle, once our spontaneous party move, before getting down quickly.
There’s quite a bit of moving going on. In August, house prices around the UK rose, amid renewed demand that had been stifled during lockdown, and with punters eager to avoid stamp duty. Friends are moving between rental homes, some after realising they needed a change during months in small rooms, others for financial reasons made more pressing by the pandemic. It’s the end of an era for my flat, which has been a student digs for decades. The main stylistic parallel is the movie Withnail and I, and ours has probably hosted more dishevelled drinkers. When I first arrived, we hosted wild parties, with people I’d never seen before (or since) appearing from miles away.
A motley crew have passed through. One resident was known for having a drawer where he stored leftover fried chicken. I would often leave for work in the morning to find someone passed out, once face down in the living room. I checked for signs of breathing. There even used to be a chirpy yellow canary going between rooms. It sadly flew out of the window one day. The area has its quirks too. We are near the main road, and have been welcomed more than once on leaving the house by passers-by relieving themselves on the door.
A motley crew have passed through. One resident had a drawer where he stored his leftover fried chicken
Despite the chaos, it has been a sanctuary. In my last flat, bailiffs used to come round asking to see the landlord. In a King’s Cross place, my extortionate box was divided by what felt like cardboard from the stranger next door.
I will miss many things. The hungover fry-ups from a café next door. The shop downstairs, run by four wisecracking Afghan brothers. My Spanish bicycle repairman, who is such good value he seems to give me money every visit. The proudly Irish pub with delicious Thai food at the back. Mostly, the friends who’ve lived with me and nearby.
It’s the first place I’ve lived for more than a year since I was a teenager, and my first true “home” in London. But perhaps it is time for a change. That table won’t stand too many more late-night dances.
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