[dropcap]N[/dropcap]ever again will I take advantage of hot water running out of the taps. I came home the other day to find that our boiler had just died. Not a peep, not a whir came from it. Which also meant, no heating and no hot water. I can now tell you that it takes about 4 kettles and a pot pan’s worth of boiled water to get a shallow lukewarm bath that is fine for a day or two but terrible on the old hair situation. Why us! I whinged in my head. I just resigned to it and chalked it up to yet another blunderful experience whilst we called out a repairman. That evening I laughed out loud when I read Time Out’s article on the Five Worst Kinds of Londoner , as in actually laughed out loud and not just typed LOL on my phone. Every Londoner can relate to it; I especially loved the North London description of the 40 year old media man-child (also to be found in abundance on the streets of Soho) Since moving here as a green 18 year old I’ve lived Norf, Sarf , sort of East and sort of West, which got me reminiscing about all my old flats- all the good, the bad and the ugly.
Our large studio flat in Bayswater, that laughably was classed as a one bed because it had folding doors separating off the bedroom area. It was in a picture perfect Victorian garden square, moments away from Portobello Road and Hyde Park. We never had to cook at home, I could walk to work, and it felt like we were in the center of the universe. When the rent started to creep up and our secret cat was discovered, we moved out. I’ve never gotten over it.
The Bad and the Ugly:
So much bad. There was the landlord that threw us out three months into our first semester at uni, for no reason. The loveable but filthy student pad where I got bitten by some wiggly creature on the sofa one summer (could have been a worm, could have been a maggot) There was the flat in Kilburn that had mice, the flat in Greenwich that had no central heating…or washing machine…and a dodgy electricity meter that was quite possibly illegal. Oh, and acid green walls in the bathroom. So much ugly.
Sitting here with my fingers crossed that I can wash my hair in the next day or so, I realised that this year is our seventh year in our current home. SEVEN years?! Where did the time go and why is my home still not a Pinterest worthy show home? In moments of frustration I tell myself that I will look back at this time with rose tinted glasses, laugh off the time our boiler went bust, when the ceiling and bathroom leaked from upstairs, the patience I learned living with glossy magnolia paint, that one time I felt like I lived in a house made of polyfiller and cat litter, when I realised that we just have to make do with what we have despite just wanting to bulldoze everything flat and start from scratch because UGH one day our kids will call us for the help and answers because moments like this is how we find them.
My hair is not okay with this.