When I moved to the big smoke ten years ago, at the tender age of 17, I was untainted and bursting with excitement, both at the thought of becoming a professional dancer (preferably in some sort of grotesque grindy music video which at the time I thought was the height of glamour) and finding an amazing apartment with housemates similar to Rachel and Monica from ‘Friends‘. A nice ‘Friends’ style flat, ideally near Big Ben. I was only a teen, blissfully unaware of rental prices in the city and oblivious to areas beyond the location of my mothership (The flagship Topshop on Oxford Circus) and Zone One tourist attractions.
Upon arriving for a weekend of accommodation searching and surely being scouted to appear as one of J.Lo’s (she was still J.Lo in those days) backing dancers at the Brit Awards, I promptly realised neither of the above were going to come into fruition easily (the latter failed to at all. I was and still am a very bad dancer). From that moment forth until about a fortnight ago, I have been a victim of London room/flat searching hell. Scouring Gumtree religiously for a living space that was both clean and cosy with lovely, chilled people to reside with. I wasn’t expecting life long friends and a loft conversion room for under £500 in St Johns Wood or anything ridiculous, just people who were sane and didn’t like to leave aggressive Post It notes on every available surface. When you’re paying £500 plus a month for what is essentially a broom cupboard with a mattress and a rickety bedside cabinet is that really too much to ask?
I first learnt of the jungle that is room searching in London on a budget during the afore mentioned weekend back in 2004. Wet behind the ears and exhausted by exploring the previously unknown to me Zones 2-4, I took the last room I saw before breaking for lunch. Word to the wise: Do not make life altering decisions on an empty stomach and/or when detoxing. Located in West Kensington behind a questionable massage parlour, I eagerly lugged my belongings into a small box room with an iron shaped hole in the carpet, no mattress on the bed and no double glazing. I was lodging with a 42 year old woman who had a kind heart and cooked a great breakfast but yelped in terror every time I flushed the loo (she was of a very nervous disposition) and stunk the flat out with Deep Heat (she was also a hypochondriac and would use the popular topical treatment for all her ailments. Even a head cold which had ghastly repercussions). I hung in there for four months and that was only because it was dirt cheap and had Kensington in the address.
Eventually I was forced to move back home to Southampton after spending all my savings on the dance classes that thankfully brought me to the realisation that I was not, in fact, born to dance. I’d had my first taste of London though, with all the delights it has to offer and within no time, saved enough money to get my now flabby bottom (it had increased in size tremendously since quitting dance classes) back up to the city that had my heart.
This time I had a boyfriend in tow and we’d decided on Camden as we both loved The Libertines and grew up on all things Brit Pop so felt it was a natural choice, unaware that anyone with the slightest bit of cool had begun to gravitate east to Hackney. To our amazement we found a cute little basement flat love nest, very reasonably priced, pretty much opposite the tube. Yes it was lacking daylight and had an infestation of ants but it was our first home together and our landlord was the cute little old Irish lady who lived upstairs and more than eager to help out with any hiccups along the way. We settled into our love cave young, innocent and totally enamoured with each other. So enamoured were we, our landlord (who was a devout Catholic and proudly displayed a large poster of Mary and Jesus in her bay window) had convinced herself we were not living in sin and actually newlyweds.
Terrified of being thrown out of our total bargain, zone two, ant riddled pad we had no choice but to play along, which only encouraged her to rap on the door bearing a selection of cakes to discuss when we were having our first child over, every time we got even close to consummating our fake marriage. Needless to say the combined pressure of said sham marriage and moving in together far too young took its toll and the relationship began to crumble.
We decided to live apart. He swanned off up the road to Parkway with his best friend, into what can only be described as the best party house ever (smack bang next door to the legendary Dublin Castle) and I moved across the road with my cousin above the equally legendary (but for very different reasons) Worlds End pub. In truth, our flat was charmingly positioned half above the pub and half above ‘Camden’s King Of Falafel’ which meant from the moment they blasted the ovens on at 9.30am right through until close of business our entire flat stank of falafel and kebab. Delightful. In fairness it was host to some epic parties but after six months of spending the majority of our wages on incense sticks and Febreze my cousin married a man who looks like he should be on the cover of ‘Men’s Health’ and I got a place at drama school, taking me west to Ealing.
Although the house share in Ealing did boast a paddling pool it meant, after foolishly opting to not live with fellow students, I was residing with a bizarre woman who hummed the ‘Casualty’ theme tune to herself constantly and hid her dirty plates behind the sofa. A three bed semi-detached, we were made complete by a policeman who appeared suspicious of me at all times. This led me to become super paranoid that I was breaking the law at every turn and that he would lock me up and throw away the key. Is leaving takeaway boxes on the side a criminal offence? Dropping a pair of your knickers on the stairs when taking up your laundry? Having sex too loudly? Would that come under disturbing the peace?!
A year passed. Drama school came to an end. I’d avoided being chucked into the slammer for crimes against communal living areas and felt it was time to try living with my boyfriend again. We had survived drama school after all! A breeding ground for bad shagging choices and convincing yourself you’ve fallen for the conceited young actor playing opposite you. Surely we would make it work after that. I packed up and headed back north to Hornsey. We were won over by a cheap one bed with a roof terrace, completely ignoring the fact the living room was the size of a shoebox (literally) and we were above ‘Al Pacino’s 24 Hour News and Food’ home to many a drunken brawl after the pub across the street kicked out.
We tried but could not make it work. We tearfully/joyfully/relievedly parted ways and so began the Gumtree search, scrupulously attempting to wheedle out the hummers, hypochondriacs and the hysterical. It was fruitless. What came next was a year and a half of sofa surfing and lodging with my mum’s fiancé’s parents.
Side note: thank you Gayle, Amy, Jess, Katherine Steph and mum’s fiancé’s parents.
On my quest I encountered, amongst others, a ‘part time vegan’ that lived with ten cats in a converted studio in Canonbury who informed she had only washed her hair twice in the past year (once for her daughters wedding, once for a match.com date), a medical student in Kentish Town who was looking for a roommate that didn’t smoke, drink, eat meat or have a partner and who was happy to pose for her sketches. Then of course there were the con artists who want you to transfer a £1500 deposit via Western Union for a room you’re yet to view because they are “Stuck in Florida for their second cousins wedding and have many many people of interest fighting for the room already and want to be sure you’re not a time waster”. I was entirely hopeful when I went to view a room in Dalston. I’d be sharing with a two girls, one with a “love for Independent cinema and Cadbury’s Double Deckers“ – perfection, thought I! I love indie films and Double Deckers (in truth I am more of a Boost girl but it’s vicious out there – dog eat dog and you gotta play the game).
I arrived to discover she’d covered every possible surface of the kitchen in strongly worded neon Post It notes, angrily stating the current housemate should “PUT THE FUCKING POTATO PEELER BACK IN DRAWER 3C!” and “WHY DID YOU MOVE THE SCALES AGAIN?! YOU KNOW IM DOING SLIMMING WORLD!” The nail in the coffin was the classic 90s Man and Baby Athena poster hanging on the bathroom door with One Direction’s Harry Styles face sellotaped over the original model’s head… She was 32.
November through to December provided a brief period of respite in glorious Highbury (which also so happens to be the best area for Tinder FYI. The streets are lined with hotties in that postcode) but my friend was off to New York and I was left with the daunting prospect of finding a suitable house share all over again. Then it happened, the universe starting working in alignment for me for once and I’d not even finished my vision board! Two of my close friends needed a housemate – I was saved in the eleventh hour!
So as I write, I find myself warm and cosy in my dream house share. Upstairs is a charming flame haired Scottish chick who has already saved us nearly a grand on plumbing work after I broke the bathroom by sweet talking the plumber. Next door is one of my best friends – cuter than cute – who understands the importance of having Stuff Yourself Silly Sundays and also happens to be a fantastic cook. After ten years I think I deserve it. Let’s just hope I don’t fuck it up… I did break the bathroom on day two after all.
Alex Neve is an actress/stand up with big love for pesto, gin and anything that will make her bottom appear smaller and slightly firmer. She can do a forward roll (returning to stand) and once directed Geri Halliwell to the Hermes section in Harrods. Her goal this year is to achieve her childhood dream – successfully cross monkey bars. Her personal best to date is bar two. You can follow her on Twitter HERE.
Pictured: Rachel, Monica and Phoebe of ‘Friends’, Alex’s original potential flat mates, Alex Neve.
