“Oy you a terrorist mate?”

Bedecked in a denim jacket, a Che Guevara T Shirt, with a rucksack and my brother’s laundry, I was stopped and bag-searched at 0945 this morning under the 2000 Anti Terrorism Act by three uniformed police and a search dog at Kings Cross, just yards from the barrier.

In spite of the policeman being very nice (and even introducing me to the dog, which i wanted to stroke but felt it inappropriate), my stomach rumbled but that could have been hunger. He asked me a few basic question. if i was on my way to work, what work that was and how long I had been there. “For friggin ever” was not appropriate so I said “four years”. He said he would give me a receipt, which would show the reason for any lateness. I was tempted to say “oh we must do this again”. I was grateful for that, he does not know what my boss Pippa is like. She has heard all manner of excuse from me! He asked me for some id, I had my passport, which must have looked suspicious but I am in the process of renewing, and a credit card. He joked he would not charge me for the search. I mustered a laugh as the rush hour wandered by. He looked through my bag, saw a Nivea for Men oil control moisturizer and probably decided I was no threat. He also asked me to select my ethnic origin. British White was way down the list, which underlines how cosmopolitan London is, I almost ticked West Indian Rastafarian by mistake.

He told me politely if I had any grievances, I could call the following number and they both wished me a pleasant day. I miss the dog already. I am off now to calm that rumbling stomach, think of that poor shot Brazilian and ditch my jacket. Denim is out. And so am I.

Golders Dream

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.

Damn Landlords

It has been 15 years since I moved out of home in North Manchester. I know I look too youthful. Never in my life have I had such contact with residential landlords. Daily or every other day in the case of Mr Amin. This slightly anxious, penny-pinching married 60-something Indian man. He lives just north of London. As a result, he rarely comes down to check out the range of curses, which seem to plague the house of five, in which I live with a generally decent and eclectic bunch of people. All of these people are generally equally capable of handling a conversation, even if it comes in an array of accents. And yet, every single time, he is leaving me hundreds of messages.

The barrage of calls is relentless and I have a Jewish mother.

“Lee, can you call me to tell me where the leak is, I am here with the repair man”
“Lee, can you call me, I am here with the fire extinguisher man”

“Lee, can you call please, I want to know if anyone will be home for the arrival of Francesca’s wardrobe”

“Lee, can you call please, my wife wants to know when you all will be home so she can meet you”

“Lee, can you call please, the builders are coming round to do your rooms”

“Lee, can you call please, Tony is round to fit the new oven”

Of course, when we call him to tell him

Mr Amin, we have mites chewing the carpet, will you replace it?

Mr Amin, the oven hobs don’t work, could we have the new one promised before I climb into the microwave with my meal?

Mr Amin, there is a damp patch in the bathroom, could we want to paint over it as you won’t do anything about it?

Mr Amin, we need a new shower heater in spite of global warming?

Mr Amin, Francesca needs a new wardrobe that fits the room’s dimensions.

Mr Amin, Anna needs a new bed that she can sleep in without dangling her legs out of the upstairs window.

If Gordon Brown is reading my expanding blog, kill the housing market. Now. Let us on this so called rope ladder of debt before we turn to eating our friggin landlords in cold, insect-infested, cluttered shoeboxes just off Golders Green.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you. I am off for lunch.