After a traumatic separation with a very good bi-polar bi-sexual friend of mine, I moved into the more tranquil surroundings of Brent Cross and onto a tree-lined, Rabbi-planted suburban street in North London. From a sofa-come-bedroom in Southgate, I now had access to a five-bedroom semi-detached house with an overgrown back garden and a front patio with weeds so embedded that they would have survived a Force 10 tornado. Or a parental visit. Surrounded by remanants of a Jewish past, there were bakeries, falafel shops, religious newspapers on sale, mini shools and Mitzvah vans parked up and down the main road. In fact, one such Mitzvah van stopped me whilst my family and I walked down the street to ask me “if I had done my tefillin that day.” Afraid to lie and noticing the accelerated snail pace of my fast-fleeing father, I felt obliged to stop. Right there. In the middle of a busy road on a Sunday. I said a blessing as a Rabbi wrapped leather straps around my arm and head. Took me back to that club in Vauxhall. I stayed focused.
An interesting area, nonetheless, close to friends, my brother and a 30 minute commute to work, I began to like it very much. My flatmates were cool. Claire, a much-travelled Scottish, singer, renowned for her collection of piggy money boxes, a love of West Wing and a Thai green curry. She inhabited a tiny toom, cramped enough for her and her guitar, how she got her Greek boyfriend Chris in there without folding him up or deflating him, I honestly don’t know.Next, Anna, a 29 year-old Hastings girl, who reminded me of the woman in the Timotei advert.. for her illuminous blonde locks not her love of swimming in rockpools. She did, however, love rockclimbing and often would recount us with tales of her balancing on ropes in Finsbury Park whilst her father yo-yod up and down. Anna’s love of ridiculous haunting programmes and Eastenders is saved by her loyalty to Coronation Street, beef stroganoff and her moaning at Sam when he farts, burps or drinks, which is a full time job in itself.
Then there is Sam, our shaved-headed all-round alco/shago/burpaholic from Brisbane. Or near. A real presence. A genuine character. One you won’t forget. Signs of his presence in the house include 24 cans of Fosters in the fridge, 238 DVDs from Blockbusters piled high next to the TV, Scrubs is on, coming on or been on, there is a Tesco pizza in the oven, a pack of naked girl cards on the table and the Rabbis next door look a little green having almost been bowled over by him on his skateboard down Golders Green Road. Oh and there is usually something burning in the garden.
We are just grateful it is not Francesca, Mrs Mussolini from Ancona. They do not get on. Nor do I, really. Started out well, a 38 year-old former flight attendant and recent student, who had lived in London since I was in school trousers. It gradually emerged as little things popped up that she saw herself as Queen Bee in the house and not really cut out for communal living. It is a shame. Signs she was home include uneaten tofu and the precise alignment of her Burmese voodoo dolls next to the telly. When they fell off, after Sam kicked them off, we thought she may have fallen down a pothole. Other than complain at Sam, abuse Claire and hide her foil as she is a vegetarian, I still have no idea what she does.
I have an idea what I am doing, enjoying work, exercise and a blossoming social life, not to mention a project on the side, that I am relishing, and a feeling that things are gonna happen. Soon. And in three weeks, they will, under a different roof.
