The Neighbourhood

I love Hackney. It has a high crime rate, a high unemployment rate and parts of it looks like a shit heap but the things that attach stigma to a place are often the things that help to bolster its authenticity. I couldn't help but feel a swell of pride when the Tesco delivery man refused to get into my lift because my building was 'too ghetto'. I guess that means I'm 'ghetto'. I am totally cool with that. Here are some of the awesome things within ten minute's walk of my East End ghetto.


This is the view from my balcony. Not exactly green fields and rolling hills but if you appreciate the urban sprawl, and I do, it's a constantly changing and always fascinating landscape. It's also good for spying on people.


This cafe serves amazing French toast but they only have ONE bottle of maple syrup which can cause friction between the clientele.


There are a lot of Turkish restaurants in Hackney but this one is my favourite, mostly because it's about 30 seconds from my house. They don't sell proper Turkish tea but they do bring you Turkish Delight with your bill, which no one except me ever wants to eat.


Have you been worrying about Richard Blackwood? Good news, he's still alive and at the Hackney Empire basically every weekend (and sometimes weekdays too). Not such a fall from grace - I saw Wynton Marsalis play here last summer.



I know this probably doesn't count as it hasn't technically finished being built yet, but I can't WAIT for the Hackney Picturehouse to open. 4 screens! 3 bars! No more schlepping to the Aubin or the Rio, both of which are too pretentious to sell pick n mix, which is secretly the only reason I even go to the cinema!


This place may not look like much, and it actually looks far worse when the shutters are open, but they will do a fine job of shaping and polishing your nails for a mere £6. Just not on a Sunday.


I'm guessing 'Casa De Carnes' means 'house of meat', which sounds tantalising - unfortunately this is just a really cheap good quality Brazilian butcher shop which is actually made of bricks.


I felt a disproportionate amount of pride when London Starnight Supermarket and Video was mentioned in the Guardian - it's where I go when I want bean curd candy or to source ridiculous ingredients when I decide, ill advisedly, to open up the Ottolenghi cookbook and try again.


I admit I've never been in here and you can probably see why - it's the most terrifying looking 'shop' I've ever seen in my life and, I'm leaping to conclusions here, definitely a front for some kind of Mafia/Yakuza/secret poker game HQ.


Shonky sign aside, Green Papaya is widely thought of as the best Vietnamese restaurant in East London. It's impossible to get a table at the weekend without booking, and when you've finished your meal they'll helpfully, pushily bring your bill without you asking for it. They also bring After Eights with your bill, so that's OK with me.



I haven't traveled much but I'm willing to put it out there, as a totally objective fact, that the E5 Bakehouse (under one of the railway arches next to London Fields station) sells the most delicious bread in the Western world.


London Fields was looking very beautifully Autumnal this morning. The best
lido weather may be behind us but there's still plenty to do around here if you know where to look and you stay away from dark alleyways and shady characters.

New Additions

I've been in the flat for three months now and I still feel like I'm living inside a trophy wife. It can be intimidating. I imagine a trophy wife requires the same amount of frantic maintenance - gifting, grooming, gratuitous amounts of quality time. I realised recently that if I don't stop spoiling this lump of concrete I'll probably end up destitute and homeless, albeit surrounded by beautiful things. And though the irony of that situation would not be lost on me, I have no desire to become the protagonist in the Aesop's Fable of my own life. So, I must say thank you to the summer sales and to generous friends with good taste.

This tray was bought for me by my sister on a recent trip to New York, from a crockery store called Fishs Eddy. The stuff they sell is always beautiful but at the moment they have a range featuring the art of Charley Harper (one of my all time favourites). The rest of it can be found here and I want it all. I'm seriously thinking of becoming someone's beard just so as I can make a Fishs Eddy wedding list.


My friend Helen, who's beautiful graphic design work can be found here, sent these two gorgeous posters to me from Germany after I admired them on her website.


This fellow looks after my plastic jewellery and foreign coins.

I saw this throw in Urban Outfitters and pep talked myself out of buying it because I had literally nowhere to put it and it clashes with everything. The next time I saw it it was heavily discounted and I couldn't resist the serendipity. At the moment it's helping my dull council flat radiator to bum me out a little less.


I got this print super cheap on Ebay - the original design is by another of my favourites, Miss Van. A great thing about having your own place is that you can put titties anywhere you want. There are several other renderings around the flat, perhaps that's another blog post for another time. Having said that...

There's also this amazing mug - another Fishs Eddy gift, from someone else who went to New York and knows exactly what I want before I even know myself. Given I'm about to sit down with my titty mug and drink tea for the balance of the evening, it would hardly be appropriate to say I'm living fast. But if I do die young at least I'll leave behind a beautiful collection of stuff.

Living Alone

'You're your own boss you can do as you please
Open a window and let in a breeze
You sit down to dinner, yeah, you cooked your own
You light a candle, you're living alone.' - Loudon Wainwright III

Despite appearances, my determination to buy my own place was not primarily so that I could fancy it up with clocks and cushions and oversized lamps. I'm pleased that the textiles and colour scheme accurately reflect the inside of my soul but those things are not my greatest self indulgence. My greatest self indulgence has been living alone. I have wanted to live alone for a long time. I've lived in 8 different flats/houses/hovels since I moved here 7 years ago. I have had some wonderful homes and shared them with some fascinating people. Some were dickheads. Some have become close friends. Most I look back on with great fondness, with appreciation and retrospective wisdom. But living by myself has always been my holy grail - perhaps in the same way that others fantastise about travel, I fantasised about being home alone.

Sometimes it's so great it's almost overwhelming. I talk to myself constantly. I sometimes eat my dinner in the bath. I relish opening the fridge and being the master of all I survey. I would happily spend days here without ever leaving, but I'm worried I'm unlearning a lot of my co-habitation skills which I may well need again at some stage in the very distant future. What if I meet someone who one day wants to move in? I can barely stomach the idea of my books being mixed up with someone else's, let alone foreign hair in the plughole. That person would have to be extraordinarily wonderful, and also incredibly tolerant and kind. In a sad, selfish way I'm almost hoping that person doesn't exist.

Anniversary

Sunday was my one month anniversary in the flat. In some ways I can't believe it's been a whole month - in others ways I feel like I've been here forever. A bit like any love affair I suppose. And I can attest - it's love. Right now I'm sitting on my sofa in a kaftan, scented candle burning, pot of cinnamon tea at my side. My sofa has wide arms which are perfect for balancing every necessity within easy reach. Phone, laptop, various components of the Sunday Times. I realise that several cats would seem like a natural addition but unfortunately I'm allergic. I do now own about six too many cushions though which are filling the void as well as completing the picture of eccentricity. My calendar has been cleared. I intend to spend every night this week this way, surrounded by cushions, newspaper supplements and tea. In years to come we may grow tired of eachother, this sofa and I, but it's difficult to imagine. This may be a death knell for my modest social life.

I continue to primp and spoil the place, and I can't seem to stop picking up little pictures everywhere despite the fact that they usually clash with the ones I already have. I got these Lucienne postcards on sale at Heals and put them in a frame I bought for someone else by accident (long story)



And this lamp, which I actually ordered in March and only received last week, is as tall as an average man (about the closest thing to anything man like that I foresee spending extended periods of time here).

Anniversary

Home

It's only been a few weeks but it's already hosted a flatpack party and seen a whole lot of nudity (all mine). This is my flat. I guess buying a place is probably a bit like going into labour - you forget about the all the pain and sweating and abandonment of dignity when you finally get to see what you've gone through it all for. That is, crossing the threshold and taking off all your clothes. Enjoy the photos.

















And this is where I'm headed for the rest of the evening:

The Final Hurdle

No fun pictures, no tales of retail ecstasy, this has been the most stressful fucking week of my entire life - and it's only Tuesday. Exchange, which I now know has something to do with the mortgage, was supposed to happen on Wednesday. It still hasn't happened, and tomorrow that makes it a week late. I have been asked several times if I would be comfortable moving the completion date to Friday instead of Thursday. No, I have insisted again and again, Friday is no good for me, because on Friday I will be in Somerset drunk driving a dodgem car at ATP Festival. The vendor has begrudgingly agreed to allow exchange and completion to happen simultaneously on Thursday - but his solicitor still hasn't confirmed that this will be taking place. I received an email from my solicitor this morning asking for a fee in excess of 2k over what we had agreed. On vigilant inspection of the bill I realised she had included stamp duty, which is not applicable as I'm a first time buyer. This was amended but only after many infuriating attempts to reach her by phone. I still don't know if I'm moving on Thursday. I'm on the edge of the edge. I have a migraine. Ironically, I'm very much looking forward to the dentist tomorrow as she's promised me a generous dose of Valium. Who knew this thing could be so stressful.