Friday was my first full day in the new flat, and most of the day was spent cleaning it and unpacking. One of the renting peculiarities of England, compared to back home, is that most rental accommodation is offered fully-furnished. It's a dream for someone in my position, but begs the question of how an Englishman copes when arriving in Australia for a working holiday.
In my case, the apartment might be better described as mostly furnished. True, there is a bed, cupboards, lounge, dining table and no end of pots 'n' pans to cook with... But the three dinner plates, one bowl, single fork and five knives pales in comparison has left me wanting somewhat. Then there is the matter of the place being mostly clean... Hence the cleaning upon moving in, something that would not be necessary in Australia.
For some weeks now I've been meaning to write about this country's obsession with power showers. With London as flat as a pancake, and facilities often becoming of a third-world banana republic, the water pressure is somewhat less than invigorating. It probably wasn't a problem in times past, when one just took a bath (if at all, judging by some of the locals I have encountered). I imagine that these days the property developers view baths as an unnecessary waste of space. And so there are now more showers, with accompanying horror stories of barely flowing shower heads. Then some bright spark invented the power shower. It's basically an electric pump attached to the shower's water pipe, increasing the flow. At Denise and Anthony's place the pump switches on in response to the water flow, thereby creating two water pressures: none and on. In my shower, a recent fit-out, I have been afforded three luxurious levels of flow (marked Low, Medium, and High), with a push but
ton to engage each possibility. In only a few short days I have become quite accustomed to the Buck Rogers modernity of pressing a switch to turn my shower on or off. I'll never go back to taps now.
As I write this, I am sitting in Soho at my favourite little coffee shop on the corner of Old Compton and Frith Streets. The inside space may be smaller than my bedroom, but it has so much more character than the cavernous chain café right across the street. Customers jockey for the prime vantage point of European sidewalk tables. I come here almost every day, as much for the coffee as the view, but I still do not know the cafe's name. Will post a photo soon.
The coffee shop, like most places in the West End, is no more than 10 minutes walk from my apartment. I may pay more in rent, but surely I'm saving on other things, like 3AM taxi rides home. It used to cost me £15 to cover the few miles to Oval, where Denise and Anthony live. I was able to put my new location to good use on Saturday night when Troy and I ventured to the G-A-Y club. I need to reread my posts, but if I have not previously vowed never to return, then it is truly the case now. The attraction on this occasion was a personal appearance by Girls Aloud. They are the Popstars girl group who had a couple of camp hits a few years back. I am very fond of their cover of The Pointer Sisters standard, "Jump". So with that in mind we set out for a good night, only to come undone by 1AM. Slightly drunk but still unsorted, we battled pubescent schoolgirls who had trekked in from the outer boroughs. When the show happened it was a terrible jumble of Rock Eisteddfor
d dance moves and half-mimed lyrics. I don't want to guess how many of these "live" PAs I have been to in my time, but they are almost always dreadful, and I never seem to learn.
I had the unintended pleasure of meeting my Australian neighbours on the first night in my flat, not long after they arrived home at 2AM, drunk, loud, and lacking mercy for their sleeping neighours.
On this trip I've had the opportunity to reflect a little on the Australian accent, and I now think it to be more varied than we might think day-to-day back home. Having been away for three months, and occasionally home-sick, it's always a pleasure to encounter Australians who don't speak like Sir Les Patterson. But invariably they do, and they're usually loud, and it's often 2AM when I notice it.
Woken from a perfectly good sleep, I did my best to ignore the dull ringing of Maria's booming voice. I know her name is Maria because from my bed I could hear everything her boyfriend was saying, and the conversation often degraded into alcoholic accusations of bad behaviour. That's when they weren't saying fuck, fucked, or fucking, which was most the time. Did I mention that they were yelling at 2AM? Grudgingly, I got out of bed, dressed, and politlely knocked on their door a few times to ask them to keep it down. I was promised by the couple's flatmate that this would happen, and I returned to bed, hopeful.
He lied.
About 25 minutes later the whole building started to shake with violent thuds as the tenant above them similarly tried to ask them to be quiet. Employing a different strategy to me, he opted to lift whatever was handy (a chair, table, or his bed) to a great height, from whence it was violently dropped. He did this at least ten times. It worked, for a few seconds, until the indignant bastards next door decided that "the fucking poof upstairs can get fucked" etc. Eventually they decided to go to bed, and some hours later I drifted off to sleep. I have since purchased a desk fan to block the noise, and have thankfully not heard a peep (or whine) from Maria ever since.
There are three buildings in my apartment complex; a total of 120 flats. As with most things in London right now, I am curious about its history. So it was quite lucky that the complex held a resident's garden party yesterday afternoon (lucky because it was the first in three e years). I met several people (some nice, some of the whinging pom variety), but also learned quite a bit about the place. Apparently, the flats were erected in 1902 by the council. In fact, the last party celebrated the building's centennial. All flats were originally bedsits, with no internal plumbing. While the walls are solidly constructed according to Victorian standards, back then one didn't have to worry about loud wirelesses, televisions, or whinging Antipodeans.
There is a beautiful communal garden in the complex, where we congregated for the party. Apparently local planning laws prohibit building construction on the site of cemeteries and graves, until the remains are moved. I know this because the garden is believed to be located on the site of a plague pit, explaining the large open space in a fairly built-up area. A real estate developer was interested in the land, but was put off by the associated cost of moving so the remains of so many. So basically, in movie terms, my apartment complex is built on the site of an ancient Indian burial ground, with all the associated connotations. I'll let you know if "they're here". In the meantime, I'll try and organise some photos of the garden. I intended to do that today, but it is raining. It will probably rain sometime tomorrow too. All understandable really, as we've just entered London's annual rainy season. It lasts from August to July.
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