We got a flat

We are now more officially residents of London than ever before.

A park not too far away

Ruru on our bed

We signed a lease and moved into a 2 bedroom flat somewhere at the edge of Islington with my friend, recently arrived from the States. The flat is the second and third floor of a house arrangement they call a “mansionette” – on the first floor a living room that overlooks the neighbour’s apple trees with small bright red autumn apples, and a bedroom with a marvellous wardrobe (lined with shelves, equipped with its own private light) and a view towards the BT Tower; on the second, a bathroom with an incredibly loud water pump to give the shower some oomph, and a larger room upstairs with a skylight that affords wonderful views of a bright yellow moon. We have a small patch of garden out the front, containing a large beautiful tree, an old wooden table giving slowly to decay, and a large and beautiful spider.

Our house is near train tracks. Sometimes, lying in our bed (king sized! KING SIZED! And a real bed. Oh, I had so much fun with my friend, picking out the bedding we would have for our rooms. M and my bed has a forest on it now, black background covered in ferns and some flowers and the occasional curious dragonfly) – but, sometimes, lying in bed I can feel the vibrations of the train going by. I remind myself earthquakes aren’t really a thing here. I don’t mind the trains. I like them, in an odd way, and you get used to them quickly, the sound of them passing by, the slight shaking of the walls and mattress that could, if you are lying very still, almost be simply the beating and pulse of your heart.

And the other night a fox was calling. It was right outside, and loud in amongst all the houses. It stopped when my friend opened her curtain and spilled light out onto our patch of grass. I don’t know what it was calling for. I fell asleep and woke, briefly, when it called again in the early hours.

We’ve been here a couple of weeks and are waiting for the internet to arrive, and are still adding a some furnishings and need some things to add colour to the white walls. The place came with one picture – a gigantic, painfully stylised painting of Nefertiti, Tutankhamen, and a Sphinx in black and gold. It was hanging above our bed. We took it down a couple of nights ago, but I had strange dreams that first night. The image does not bear replication here.

Crucially, we have also been to see an excellent performance of The Importance of Being Earnest at the Vaudeville Theatre. It was a fantastic performance, with an excellent Mrs Bracknell played by David Suchet. I cannot image a better Bracknell. I also cannot image a better, more amusing enactment of the muffin scene. You know the one.

One conclusion has arisen about general services in the UK: they are crap. Banks are crap. Phone providers are crap. Electricity companies are crap. Setting up internet is crap. You have to pay for water and council tax, which is crap. It seems that welcome weeks at universities are crap. Everything is disorganised and lined not only with beauracracy but carefully practiced incompetency.

On the way home from work

I have a nation-ist theory about this. The English put up with such crap services because they like to complain about things. It also allows them to continue with mediocrity, as they can hide behind the general incompetency. This is a slightly unfair statement, as I have worked with several people of the English ilk who have been incredibly hardworking and helpful, but nevertheless I want to stick with it.

Prove me wrong, general English services! I know you have it within you, underneath your passionate apathy!