It all started with this address:
26 Whymark Ave, Wood Green, N22 6DJ
London (of course),
Tube Station: Turnpike Lane
That, incidentally , is my home address. Yes, because last night I have a house. Sterle 93 a week before meter (or almost), just minutes tube by my university. To see this on the map is so far from the center, my little house. And in fact it will take two days foot walk good.
The owner, like all home owners here is turkish Cypriot. Do not get me wrong, they are not all Cypriots, but more often than Turkish. Or Jews. For example, I had to do with Amir, who ran the pub coolest Kentish Town (near Camden Town always) and the upstairs tenant on a tower-house with beer-garden private. Inside, a huge loft for myself and 8 between Australian, New Zealand and who knows what else. Outside, peeling paint and lots of beer. Prices. The only drawback: no contract. I should give my money to the menager of the pub in a sealed envelope to lock the room and wait until I'm called. When I wrote to Amir: where do I sign, he replied "nothing to sign." When I asked him to meet, he replied: "There's no need. The room has gone." So that was the other fly in the ointment. No contract, no room.
At home, however, the real one, a room I have it all right. Huge. With sofa and double bed and large window. Do not get me wrong, my house also has its own mole. For example, I can do more than one washing machine per week, otherwise I have to pay 3 pounds to Erkan, the turkish Cypriot (very attentive, loyal and diligent, I will tell you). Or if I want to hold someone I have to pay 5 pounds a guest. This, he said, to avoid situations squatting. Well, this is a great new, but pass protection with the help of my new coinquini, hopefully. A Latvian, one Polish, two Portuguese and one Italian. It 'a kind of home-Ryanair flight to pay a bargain price, but if you want extras releases something. We can stand as a compromise? I tell you on Saturday, when I move and meet my new roommates. Yes, because in all of this I have never seen any of them. Freddie Kruger is lurking.
Erkan
Before-the-turkish Cypriot community, there have been in order: the Icelandic aside and let the dream house, my dearest and unattainable. The home of good pubs that jew-god-have-it-in-the-grace-even-trying-uncle-Adolfo-home-to-London. A house can not remember anything except that in my notebook it says "NO shithole." Another that I have not had time to see because it was already taken by someone a few minutes before they reach you for viewing . Then what? The House of Friends, beautiful, two mezzanine floors, big living room mega mega coinqulini ultrasimpatici (mexico & clouds) that made the selections drum smoking lazily on the couch while the bystanders, nervous, trying to do their best to appear interesting. Including myself. Imagine style.
After that, home of 40 sq m on two floors with 4 bedrooms, bathroom, kitchen and closet. 40 square meters, again, if you had escaped, with dog shit at the door and the poor families of Arabs who came home with 8 children. Mothers covered from head to foot, a few meters from the amazing Brick Lane. But those few steps led to another world, precisely because of shit and dog gang baby against the wall you squared.
But the most beautiful house was the one that I have not seen. I arrived about nine and a half meters. It was the last outpost of civilization, near Wembley. But not too much. I, white, dressed in white, in the ghetto. Around me only blacks who walked with his legs apart, with gold chains around his neck and crocchietti at the crossroads and teeth chattering with fear. Police sirens in the distance, obviously, and the unpleasant sensation of being followed. I took the first bus to escape from there, never go to the appointment.
Much worse than the truck overturned under the bridge, San Donato, Biassoni, much worse. O doped doorstep Fallen, Bagnoli, much worse.
So, before all this, you know that London is deeply deceptive. Weakens you, scares you, kill you with his endless journeys on the metro and you down, so down for a couple of days. Then, of course, have you deceived the first. So you happen to live Ryanair in-house and thank God could do it just passes 370th pound per month. When, with that figure, in Bologna you have breakfast with mum Clerks to buy the building or building Accursio Garrovo.
Outside the sun is shining, the better advantage.
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