I like it round here. I could consider living here, although I doubt I could afford it. This area is one of only a small handful of places where I have roots. I’m not sure I like that word roots, in this context. I don’t know of any alternative to use though, and much as I like to play on my drifting nomadic loner persona, when I do feel the presence of “roots” I feel a sudden sense of belonging, of history, of knowledge. I had an affair with a teacher round the corner on Grosvenor Road, one of the most desirable addresses round here. There’s a ramshackle house with a big external staircase under a corrugated iron roof, which reminds me slightly of the Californian Beach chalet house The Monkees lived in. It was ramshackle in the 1990s when I was regularly around here, and it appears to not have changed at all. I’d love to know the story of that house, it appears to be occupied.
On the corner, the Gails Bakery used to be a Barclays Bank. There’s an Oxfam bookshop, a Co-op supermarket, lots of little cafes. There used to be a tremendously 80s wine bar which reminded me of Birds Of A Feather. Off Grosvenor Road is The Shrubbery, an unexpected Art Deco development of flats with balconies and green drainpipes. It was bombed during the war, but rebuilt perfectly, so you wouldn’t realise now.
At an adjacent table is a solo man who looks a little like Jake Edey. Next to me an Asian man in a cap. We’re separated by screens, conversation is hushed, muted. It’s like a Patrick Hamilton scene. I should go soon, although I could linger all day. The Jake guy just had a concern about whether the flower at his table is real or plastic. I don’t even have one. I’ll go somewhere else now.
I’m thinking again about where to live (I never really stop thinking about it), and what to do. At the moment writing seems natural, maybe I should look again at writing MAs. Are they too prescriptive though? If I work out a more generous budget for rent and bills I could broaden the search and look at more conventional renting. Dr Croissant mentioned Fitzrovia, which is very cheap for very central London, but that end of Oxford Street is now retail wasteland, so perhaps it isn’t so surprising. Places look tiny though, single rooms with built in hobs. If I was younger I’d find the Katharine Whitehorn (“Cooking In A Bedsitter”) Earls Court Patrick Hamilton lifestyle quite romantic. Minimal possessions, enjoying experiences, everything local, wine in the launderette. My old bedroom in Grove Green Road was nice in that way, with an old fireplace. I think I need more space though. I don’t need possessions for the sake of them, but books, clothes, films. A desk, painting space, a garden.
In Loughton now. It is different. It feels provincial. There are memories for me here too. School. The last family home we had. But it feels lost now. The school has been locked down, shops have become different shops, but that’s not surprising, is it? There are young healthy looking men in white tee shirts who perhaps only exist in this town. Play football, drink in Wetherspoons, get married, never leave the town. Everyone is white too. It feels like a country town distinct and distant from London, even though the roundels of the tube stretch this far. When we moved to South Woodford it felt like we were becoming metropolitan. Eastenders began broadcasting that winter, so I think I assumed our life would be full of market stalls and vibrance. Lofty Holloway could have been a Patrick Hamilton character, living above Ethel and her dog, both renting from Dr Legge. The whole house could have been set in the 1950s in fact.
I read an article in Vice this morning by Ben Smoke, about him visiting Sheppey, trying to find triggers of old memories of a difficult childhood. He initially felt nothing for the place, until one specific location brought back a memory of a traumatic experience, and he wanted to leave. I wonder if my slight unsettled feeling at being here is similar. Nothing traumatic happened here although consistent bullying at school made me introverted, and I never really had friends here. That old awkward closeted teenager life is one I successfully escaped from. Nothing here is relevant to me now. In Wanstead I was starting to be independent, study art, have opinions of my own, think, act and live like a bohemian, move to that house in Leyton, work in theatre, make Soho my territory. Living in Soho might be fun. I could open a literary equivalent of the Colony Room club.
Andrew Stevenson 