I moved out of my flat in Soho and shoved my stuff into storage armed with two suitcases and a plan: I’d mess around for a week or two, then buy a house. “How long can it take?” I reasoned. Three months later I’m still sorting out the paperwork and find myself flitting between places.
Being of no fixed abode was supposed to be an adventure. I’d envisaged myself in the pub, impressing people with tales of my carefree bohemian life. I’d forgotten what Sienna Miller already knows: the Boho look only really works when you’ve got a PA, a rich boyfriend or a trust fund propping you up.
My friend Michael says that when Barbra Streisand started out as a nightclub singer she’d do interviews twirling a thick fob of keys to friends’ houses that she could let herself into on any given night. It sounds so romantic. Let me tell you: it ain’t.
I’ve started spare-room surfing on a weird tour de force of my friends’ lives. Staying with people means keeping their schedule: 6am starts, or 2am finishes. Sometimes you’re up all night drinking with Japanese DJs; or waking up on a sofa with a baby prodding your face. You’re thrust into environments that are incompatible with your life. You get munchies at your friend-with-the-baby’s house and find yourself in the kitchen at midnight eating rusks. You have to explain to your unemployed friend why you can’t stay out all night. You get told off for being messy, or tidying too much.
“I’d forgotten what Sienna Miller already knows: the Boho look only really works when you’ve got a PA, a rich boyfriend or a trust fund propping you up”
Breakfast varies: scrambled eggs, Coco Pops, leftover wine.
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