Return of the Mac

I will resume normal post activity probably towards the end of this month. So put a note in your diary to start checking back on June 1st 2005. In the meantime, posts will be sporadic at best, depending on my Internet access.

Friends have my mobile number, which remains unchanged. My home telephone will be disconnected in a day or two. My flat is empty. Zen chic. I had the urge to purge. A desire to retire. A need to bleed. It was cathartic getting rid of so much life-detritus.

It’s amazing how little we need to live. Hell, if hygiene in London’s cheap eateries was better, we wouldn’t even need kitchens. Of course, not that long ago, people went to public baths. What an idea. When I was growing up in Gosfield Street, our bath was in our kitchen. Our “sitting room” was actually a room where my mum worked on her industrial sewing machine while me and my sister slept on our bunks. The “bedroom” had the TV and served effectively as a living room. There wasn’t much room in there for more than the bed, a TV and my baby brother’s cot.

I had a choice between going to Westminster council and the London Borough of Hammersmith and Fulham. I have opted for the latter. There are a number of reasons for this. First, the area is fantastic. I like living here. Despite the preponderance of night-time drunks and loud Australians, demonstrating their zest for life by screaming from atop their rooftops (literally), whilst getting the barbie on (literally) and getting smashed on Fosters (literally), it’s a nice borough. The council is helpful and genuinely improving year on year. The streets are clean. The shops have character. There are two football clubs here, but I can live with that now as I don’t have a car. Transport is great.

My neighbours are selfish trustafarians, but that’s ok, they keep themselves to themselves generally, even if their music often outreaches their personal space, and my personal bedtime. Westminster boasts the drug-infested Mozart Estate, the fringes of Kensal Rise, the crack-racked-corners of Queens Park, the vast expanse of Communist-chic Lisson Green Estate, and other such insalubrious environs. It would be all too easy to get housed there, and then get mugged, raped and killed, though not necessarily in that particular order.

Yes I’d be closer to my beautiful daughters. But I am a 414 bus ride away, door to door. And they have already made it clear to me several times that they want to spend half of their time with me. So that could, and should happen.

I’ll keep you posted if I can post with ease.