Before I moved to London, I had no idea what flat-hunting here was like. I imagined sexy high-rise pads, or shabby-genteel flats. I moved here at 23 to do my PhD at King's College, having spent a year as a part-time tour guide in recession-fresh Ireland, and was quickly disabused.
Our first agent, the genial Dave, led us up the stairs of a 1930s block recently stripped of asbestos and into an odourous den filled with the tangled wires of games consoles, clothes-horses, and mould.
"Lol." I thought. "As if!"
By the end of that day, we had trudged through still danker dens. Some were at the top of blocks with no lifts. Others were stuffed with half-beds to maximise rent. One had a smashed window repaired with masking tape. All seemed to have boogie boards heaped by the door.
In the end I phoned Dave. He cackled before conceding that yes, we could have the first flat. If, that is, we could produce six months’ worth of our parents’ bank statements, and a deposit that beggared us.
I made an appointment with Santander for a loan. The clerk first asked me if Dublin was in north or “free” Ireland, then refused my application.
I asked relatives about their own arrival in London in the 1980s: one top-to-toed with a friend, while another was marched into the street one night because eight Irish chaps in a single flat looked like a bomb plot.
As it turned out, that first flat was a delightful place to live. My boyfriend and I shared a room that looked over a bus stop. On the first night, I lay awake wondering how I could get used to the crunch of traffic, but soon it was as if I’d slept there all my life. 1930s blocks are sturdy, roomy, and tend to have shared boilers in their bowels. Our landlord was kind, and even when the toilet leaked, causing the floor to decay, we just set a plank across the gap.
I was studying in the rickety Senate House Library, the gorgeous British Library, and the Maughan, and old Victorian records office. In the mornings I worked as a receptionist in a private psychiatric clinic, a job which also proved to be an immersion course in the high-pressured and extremely wealthy world of the city. On lunch breaks I could saunter to the Borough Food Market and buy unpasteurised milk and artisan cheddar. That food market remains my favourite spot in London.
The day I left my first flat, I cried. I also spent all day on the tube, transporting my belongings in a suitcase. I was renting now in an ex-council flat in Borough. In London, ex-council blocks make good living quarters because they, too, are roomy and built to last.
The day we moved in, my housemates and I discovered that several windows did not open, the oven was sealed shut with grease, and there was more mould. All four of us quick-marched back to the agent’s office and staged a sit-in, eventually triumphing over the fact that, since our new landlord had failed to supply the modest storage unit specified in our contract, it was void. The problems were fixed. The storage unit arrived.
For six months I lived within walking distance of the centre of a beautiful city I could not afford to use. I taught undergraduates to submit identikit essays on Virginia Woolf, and graded these over a space-heater during two weeks of snow. One night, rolling home drunk, my flatmate and I encountered a giant pulsating sac outside the Tate Modern. Turns out it was Lady Gaga, gestating something.
After Borough, I moved to Kilburn to live again with my boyfriend. When I ran out of funds I could, technically, survive the hour-and-a-half walk to the British Library and back, if necessary, which it frequently was. North West London is, in my opinion, the loveliest part of the city, with mezuzahs on every door, proximity to Hampstead Heath, and Camden High Street a short distance away.
Living in London with no money, however, is isolating. Friends were miles away and as broke as I was. We all stayed in most nights because we didn’t have the funds for socialising. When my relationship ended I felt disconnected, since in these circumstances, you come to depend on your other half.
We parted and managed to get out of our lease, losing our deposit. I waited out the final month but ultimately misinterpreted our get-out clause. One morning I was stirred from my hangover by a call from the agent: “Niamh!”’ She cried. “Are you ready to vacate at 12pm?”
Thus began one of the worst mornings of my life, as I dived around shoving belongings into bin bags. Frantically scanning my friend-list for someone who might have the funds to help, I phoned my ex: thankfully, he was kind enough to book me a room in Cricklewood. I was forced to chuck a large amount of my stuff into a skip and waited, despondent, on the garden step. The cabbie spoke kindly to me as I sobbed all the way to Cricklewood and found myself, stunned, in the blandly calming Travelodge.
I was booked to fly home the following day. I coldly combed my belongings and set aside the things I didn’t need, drifting from charity shop to charity shop along the Broadway, leaving bags on their front steps. The next day I travelled to Gatwick, to be told my suitcase was over-weighted anyway.
"Just bloody take it," I instructed the Ryanair guy. I imagine I looked murderous. I then purchased an especially vile tub of salad and drifted around the airport cultivating a new, pure loathing for London.
But it’s ok; I have forgiven it. You can’t really stay mad at such a vibrant and open-minded place, and, in renting, you are part of a resilient youth culture that has followed its ambitions to the capital. I live and work in Ireland now, but consider going back to London all the time; I may well do so if the right job comes up. This time I’ll be ready for the rental shocks.
If you are heading for London on a budget, there are ways and means of living on little. The NHS, for instance, is about the greatest thing the UK has ever done, and, in my experience, is staffed by incredibly non-judgmental and helpful people. You can eat well for cheaper than in Ireland, the Tube is more reasonable than public transport over here, and there is always more employment there, in every sector. When people dismiss living abroad as a "lifestyle choice", however, they undermine the grit and stamina that is often needed to set yourself up away from family and backup, even in a city as close as London.
