Mama if that’s moving up then I’m moving out…

Left: Me, stretching out in the Isle of Dogs...










I’m moving house this week (I’m also going to Italy this week – if you haven’t noticed, I don’t’ do things by halves). So now that the bags are backed and blocking my exit from the room, it’s the right time to talk at length about my current flat (i.e. where I am now) before I move into the next one (where I will be tomorrow)

I live in an area called Mudchute, which is pronounced pretty much as it looks and childishly reminds me of poopchute or some other juvenile name for anus. It’s on the peninsula of north London, but feels distinctly south London – you’ll have to watch the start of East Enders for the aerial view of London to understand what I mean, but basically, I am on the south end of the peninsula that cuts into the southern part of London, even though I am on the north side… God I should never give a blind man directions…

As a result, Greenwich is a short stroll underwater away, and the sleek towers of Canary Wharf can be viewed from chez moi. It’s a historic area, where the docks of London once bustled with the spices of the far east and the cries of east end dock-workers, it now hums with the sound of new white collar workers too dumb to realize this isn’t a good place to buy real estate. Naturally space is at a premium on the peninsula and everyone who wears pink shirts with white collars wants to be able to stroll in their pin stripe to work at the wharf. As not everyone can afford the new 50 story condo with a cocktail bar on top, cheaply-built expensive shoe boxes like mine are all over the southern part of the peninsula to house those who think they’re living the high life but whose bathrooms fall apart after six months.

Where I live is a little more down at heel, with a mix of Muslims from all over – the local mosque has signs in Arabic, English, and badly spelt Turkish (jammee), some hairless British chavs, and the Mudchute farm surrounding.

I live with two very nice South Africans who aren’t from Durban and don’t drink at the Springbok bar but are here to save money. They’re a very good influence on me as I have since learned just how far a pound can get you at Asda, and I’ve even taken to walking around slapping my arse as per the Asda adverts. I did at first think they were so nice and so neat when I moved in that I thought perhaps they were aliens a la third rock from the sun. But in my final weeks, I have seen them in leisure wear, know where they keep their toothbrushes and basically learnt more about them. I am yet to confront them over the Richard Marx and Genesis CDs in their collection though. God knows what they thought or think about me, having spent only one weekend not working, traveled for most of the time I was here, brought home an array of strange men, and stayed awake till the small hours of the morning…

This is my first time ever living with strangers or basically anyone that hasn’t seen me naked so it’s been a little odd but it has only been six weeks so it has been bearable rather than claustrophobic. I’ve figured out a way to change that though… I just need to let my new flat mates see me naked right from the beginning…

More (newer) pics from the Peninsula