When I first came to live in London I shared my friend’s living room floor with a mouse. Seven years later I found myself sleeping on my friend’s floor again. This time with a baby instead.
Of all the stupid ways I have lived — sharing a studio with three people; in a derelict pub; three months sharing my best friend’s bed — none was as idiotic as how I’ve spent the past 10 months: moving between spare rooms, sofas and mattresses, as I tried to buy a property of my own.
Months passed. On bad days I despaired over money and Rightmove, wondering if there was anything in London — without a 20-year lease and blood on the walls — I could afford. I drank piña coladas and cried. Then I swapped booze for brownies. I had micro-breakdowns in frustration, as my accommodation became less luxurious by the day. But finally, it happened. I moved into my own flat. My flat! I had little furniture to begin with. I made bedside tables from books, lay on a mattress on my floor, and celebrated. I have a home for the first time since I was 17. And to the best of my knowledge it’s not mouse-infested.
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