Couches, Chefs and Me.

This is Tuesday’s post, but I am actually writing it on Wednesday. I was suppose to update on Tuesday but I couldn’t get internet access, so there you go. Whatever, fuck off.

Still homeless, spent the night at Ben’s brother’s Alex’s house. Sat out the back chatting with Dan the Head Chef. He showed us his replica shotgun he keeps when he’s out there, because the neighbour’s cat keeps jumping on his face. I doubt there is anything more captivating than conversating with overworked Chefs. It’s so enjoyable, in a “Fear and Loathing” kind of way.

Today we have been trying to secure a flat in Clapham Junction. A touch pricey the place, but if we can land it I will shave about 30 minutes and one train ride off my god-awful journey to work. The mere thought is giving me pre-cum.

I registered my phone number with Stan, so that he can reach me at any time. But it also means that my contact details have been bandied about the Foxton’s office like a phone number scrawled on a toilet door. So far I have had three of Stan’s colleague’s ring me up with bristling enthusiasm and home offers, breathlessly introducing themselves and selling their wares in the same sentence.

Gently forcing their ideas into my ear, like a drunken Farmer easing his penis into a sleeping Pig.

It gets a bit irritating, but I am keeping them on the back-burner if this current place falls through.

I’ll find out tomorrow if we have the Clapham flat, or if we will spend another week sleeping on Couches. I also have to get the Bond back from my last place, from a Landlord I can’t seem to contact anymore.


London. Character building.