The Problem with Bickenhall

Bickenhall was a palace. It was the big daddy of apartments, a Londoners hard wood floored wet dream. It was the first apartment I lived in, in London and the single longest stretch I have ever stayed in one house. The ceilings were high. The rooms were many. (bed: five. bath: five. sitting: two.) A red bricked mansion block minutes from baker st tube station with blue doors and carpeted halls and brass buttons that were buffed to a reflective shine daily and 24 hour porters and walls that could talk. Bickenhall was perfect. It was property heaven. It was also home. It was my happy place. The open plan kitchen with its 16 seater table and all the wine we drank and the copious quantities of Rand Bar Special are some of my best memories. I loved Bickenhall.

The problem with Bickenhall is that It has ruined real estate for me. Never again has a ceiling been quite high enough, a room airy enough, a kitchen well enough equipped. Bickenhall is my one true love. And as such, no where else has ever really managed to match up. Sure, there have been flirtations. I’ve dabbled in other houses, other places. I’ve casually encountered a few, embarked on serious relationships with others. But I’ve never loved anywhere like I loved Bickenhall. There was Bond Street and it’s dim sum smell, the late night restaurant refuse collection and never being bale to sleep through the night. There was Chiswick and its trek to transport and the delicious nearness of the river. There was Paris #1, my tiny apartment in the 13^th with the death trap spiral staircase. Battersea, the apartment with my fantastic neighbours and the park and bouef bourgingon every week; coupled with the Italians, a difficult bunch of people with whom I had a difficult relationship and thus, I became increasingly difficult myself as time progressed; as if it were all directly proportional and as the year went on we all just became more and more unbearable. Paris #2, the converted artist’s studio in the 10^th with the mint green smeg fridge and blue floors and ball and claw bath and antique radiators and jungle courtyard, the most picture perfect place I have ever called my home. York mans, the fire place and hallway long enough to do cartwheels in. Berlin, huge, firewood smell, 16 chairs, uncomfortable bed, several chaise lounges.

I hate house hunting. Silly really, as I seem to spend an incredible amount of time dedicated to the pursuit of it. I have a lot of awful house hunting stories that involve dogs, Nigerian scam artists, Eton boys with framed Wu Tang posters and other atrocities. This time, however, I seem to have skipped past the crazies and flea infested cess pits and have landed myself a new spot in a lovely warehouse in North London. And when is say North London, I mean, NORTH. It’s practically the great white north up here. If you’re a Hotspurs fan then come stay with me, because I am now a resident of The Hale. My new abode is a warehouse that makes its living by being a working photographic studio in the day. This morning, on the way to wash my face and brush my teeth, I crossed paths with a wafer thin girl who was half way through the make up process. She was a sad clown. But only on the left side of her face. The space is large and lovely and the floors are black and it’s double volume and the two people I live with seem very nice (and not crazy or ridiculous about labelling food and marking levels on milk bottles with a marker pen) and I think I just might like it here in The Hale...

However. This place is GHETTO. I couldn’t be more ghetto if I moved to Braamfontein. The Studio is on an industrial estate. Our warehouse is guarded by a metal gate I need two hands and my full body weight to open, kept shut with a padlock so big if used in a fight it would qualify as assault with a deadly weapon. The Hale is hardcore. The local store is a Lidl. It’s a bit of Berlin nostalgia. Only pricier. There are 24hr cab joints, Brazilian grocery stores and men in white vans everywhere. I am bringing back the canvas bag as my Paddington is not making a post midnight appearance in this area. From now on, I’ll carry my keys and phone in my pocket. No drunken 4am teetering on sky high stilettos, fumbling to find locks to fit the keys in my hand. Please. 'Wits about one' springs to mind.

It seems that as the years go on, I find myself moving further and further from the centre of London. I’m now here, at The Studio, in The Hale. Zone 3 people. Zone 3. Somewhere, 2004 Eloise is dying a slow, screaming death. At this rate I'll be moving to a little secluded spot in The Cotswolds sometime in 2014.

So here I am. In the hale. And I like it. I mean, it’s no Bickenhall... But then again, nothing is.