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There is nothing fun about flat hunting in London. It’s not like you see on TV where the down-on-her-luck protagonist seems to have a very stylish apartment overlooking St Paul’s Cathedral. No, it’s nothing like that. Not at all.
My initial request was to have a two-bed flat somewhere central, as that’s what we are used to. That’s all, really. No big ask.
Then we started looking. Allow me to divulge...
Prospective flat number one:
It looked promising from the picture. Nothing fancy but it was very pristine and white, had a big wide open space and access to a small garden, which I have come to learn is quite a rarity in London. It was on Bermondsey Street, which meant absolutely nothing to me but, according to M, was a good location.
Then we got there. The apartment was more of an off-white, and I doubt that was the original shade of paint. Everything was grubby. Walls had finger marks, which we were told would be painted over if we took the flat. The rooms weren’t quite as spacious as the panoramic photograph suggested. On top of that, it was a basement flat. This didn’t register as being a problem, initially. Then, we spent 10 minutes browsing the flat, during which time we saw several feet pass our eye level. Yes, we were literally underground like wild foxes. People were walking near our heads.
However, this was not the worst thing. Not by a long shot. The biggest piss take was that, brace yourself, you had to enter through the bedroom. I’m not even joking. The only door to enter the flat was through the bedroom. Were you not meant to have friends round? Or family? I mean, can you imagine?
‘Welcome to our little home. Please ignore the worn knickers on the floor that I haven’t got round to putting in the wash basket. Also ignore that mounting chair-drobe which is bursting with both M and my clothes because we haven’t got adequate storage space. Oh, and also, sorry about the smell. It is the morning. And we didn’t want to open the windows during rush hour as too many people are walking outside and it sounds like elephants stampeding.’
Seriously, though, do people actually live like this? I know I’m sheltered having lived with my parents for 27 years but even so, I’m sure that having a front door which leads to your bedroom is a bit bizarre. As for the outdoor garden, it was basically a yard with a bench and a very sorry pot plant in the corner that looks like it hadn’t been tended to for years.
It was a hard no.
Prospective flat number two:
This was only marginally better, in that it didn’t have a front door that lead to the bedroom. That, however, was the only advantage. It was near the fabled Tower of London, one of my favourite spots. However, I don’t think I quite like the location enough to settle for this. It was tiny. So tiny that upon opening the bedroom door, you’d have to just sit down on the bed. There was nowhere else to go. M was equally surprised by the lack of space. Despite being used to open plan kitchen, living and dining areas and having always shared while he’s been in London, M is accustomed to a bit more square footage. On top of that, this was the opposite of the basement flat. It was on the second floor and there was no lift. Not a major deal breaker, except for the times that you have bags of shopping to lug up the stairs. We’d be doing that a lot. Did I mention we’re fat foodies?
Prospective flat number three:
The apartment was small, with the standard open layout to make the space feel bigger. It was incredibly slick though, with leather sofas and black granite worktops. Initially, I thought they were marble, which just shows my level of naivety when it comes to property. Who can afford marble anything?
What really struck me was the fanciness of everything around the apartment itself. It looked like a hotel. The hallways were neat, well lit and, unlike others we’ve seen in between, there wasn’t a cigarette butt in sight. What’s more, and this bit really got me, it’s got a concierge. A concierge! Someone to collect your mail, hold on to big parcels for you (not that I have many), be in charge of security and basically make you feel incredibly well-to-do when someone comes to visit you as they have to buzz in and report to reception. Even the flat we’re staying at now, with it’s cool open plan kitchen and central location, doesn’t have a concierge. You have to fend for yourself and collect your mail like the rest of the riffraff.
One of the most exciting aspects of this property was the location. It’s in Westminster. The view outside was of the Houses of Parliament. I had a feeling that MPs may have used it as their temporary accommodation when they stay over in London. You know, the one they claim for, along with the toothbrush and toilet roll and everything else. Oh, how the other half live.
The apartment, like every other we’d seen so far, had only one bedroom. This meant I’d have to revise my original expectation of having a spare bedroom for people to stay over. Who needs family and friends, anyway?
There was one catch, however, it crept over the top of our budget. To be correct, it creeps over the very top of our adjusted budget. Originally, we thought we would be spending much less.
Despite the flat being out of reach financially, it didn’t stop us dreaming, even for a little bit.
“It would be cool to live in a smart flat in a really decent area,” says M on the tube journey back.
“Liverpool Street’s not that bad, is it? And it’s pretty central?” I add.
“It is. But it’s not the same. From the Westminster flat you can see the London Eye. And you’ve got to admit, it would be nice to have a concierge.” M has already began forming ideas above his station, only to be put back in his place by the ultimate un-equaliser - money.
Alas, it wasn’t to be. As we make our way up the winding metal steps towards the flat which doesn’t have lift access or a concierge, we decide that it doesn’t make sense pouring such a significant chunk of our income into a flat when there is so much more in London to spend our money on.
Speaking of money, I decide to initiate that conversation.
“So... when we get the flat, how do you want to do things... in terms of money?”
M‘s face shows that he feels as awkward about this as I do.
“I don’t know, really,” he says. “To be honest with ya, I think if you could put something towards the rent, that would help, just because it’s so bloody expensive.”
I wonder if he’d have brought it up if I hadn’t, or would he just stiff me with an invoice when the first month’s rent was due?
“That’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind splitting the rent. After all, I’m working, too.”
“I know, I just don’t want you spending too much of your money. I want to look after you.” M’s male pride is kicking in.
“You are looking after me. We’re looking after each other. Plus, you’ll be stuck with the lion’s share of spending when we have kids, so we might as well share the burden while I’m working.”
See that? I snuck in how I intend to be a kept woman after kids. Nicely done, if I do say so myself.
M pauses. “Okay, We’ll see. I’ll cover the bills, though.”
I let him have that one to preserve his pride.
“You do know, you can have these awkward conversations with me about money, don’t you? We are married,” I say.
“Yeah, to be honest with ya, I was going to bring it up. I just didn’t want to be all demanding but, yeah, I was gonna say something about it.”
Sure you were.
We have officially reached another milestone in our marriage. Talking money. It’s arguably one of the hardest conversations to have as a newlywed, so I’m glad we crossed it rather smoothly. I’ve also learnt a new thing about my husband. Or should I say confirm something I was already suspicious of. He is not one to take on those tricky conversations. I might need to take the lead on that.
With money talk out of the way we can put together proper budgets rather than imaginary estimates. Ooh, and we can draw up a list. Did I mention I love lists?
Nice to have:
Essential:
God, that’s depressing.
I am (secretly) comforted to know that our revised, more accurate budget can afford us a fairly central location, though a little east. That’s where we’re off to now, to view a flat in Aldgate East, which to all intents and purposes, is zone 1, but it’s also a stone’s throw from Whitechapel and is technically in Tower Hamlets. You’d think I’d planned the whole thing.
As we step out of the tube station and into the bustling street that’s glistening in the winter sun, my senses are assaulted. Nestled next to an art gallery is a kebab shop which I can tell is Bengali-owned from the loud chatter between the man behind the counter and the other straddling the door. M becomes nostalgic, telling me that he’d once bought a kebab roll from there and it was the best he’d tried in London. His face turns mischievous as he suggests that we grab a couple on the way home. I plant a seed, saying if we live here, we could eat kebabs whenever we want.
We then pass the melting pot that is Brick Lane. M shares a story of how he once went to the indoor world food market at the old Truman’s Brewery, where he sampled from almost every stall, for free, before settling on a Thai red curry. He had me at free.
The Brick Lane in my mind is full of Indian restaurants which are Bangladeshi-owned. However, Jam was right - Brick Lane has changed. On this unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon, there is a stampede of very trendy people, a disproportionate number being non-Asian. An almost equally disproportionate number are carrying flower bouquets wrapped in brown paper.
“What’s that about?” I ask M. “Lots of lucky ladies here.”
“They’re all coming from Colombia Road flower market. It’s on the other end of Brick Lane. That place is always rammed as it’s only open on a Sunday. They don’t even get them as a gift or anything.”
“What other use do they have for bunches of flowers?” I’m not sure if he’s covering his tracks for the lack of flowers he’s gifted me since we got married.
“Dunno really. For themselves, I guess. It’s weird. Half these people would never normally buy flowers just for their flats, every single weekend. It’s something people do because they’re in London.”
Only in London, I marvel, making a note to buy myself flowers on a Sunday if we move here.
“We can scope the area out after our viewing if you want? We’ve got hours before the fireworks start,” says M.
I was so mesmerised by all the flowers, I forgot it’s New Year’s Eve. We’ll be heading to the SouthBank to meet Jam and another girl he’s met through the photography event he was hoping to attend with Rima. I’ll say this, Jam’s got game.
It’ll be M’s third consecutive attempt to catch the fireworks. The first year his view was obscured by a building, the second time he arrived too late and couldn’t get anywhere near the SouthBank. Maybe I’ll be his lucky charm this year.
“Right, we’re getting into proper Bangla land now, so best not hold hands.” He frees his fingers from mine.
I laugh. “You know we are married, right? It’s not like we’re having some scandalous relationship.”
“I know but it feels a bit weird.”
Strangely, I agree with him, so we assume a respectful distance.
“Look who it is!” says M, as though I’m supposed to know the tall, muscular Asian man he is gesturing towards.
“Fancy seeing you here,” the man returns his equally familiar greeting. “Have you come for the food market?”
“Nothing fun like that,” M replies. “We’re flat hunting. This is my Mrs.”
I note how M assumes an air of cool around other boys. I might be his Mrs but I have a name, too.
“Ah, so this is the girl that’s been keeping you from doing any proper work the last year.”
Aha, so this guy, who looks like he’s overdone arm day at the gym, is his work colleague?
I laugh, remembering all the fervent email and text exchanges before we got married. “I suppose that’s me.”
“Well, it’s a good place to lay roots. East London is very trendy now,” says Muscle guy.
“So we keep hearing. What are you doing here, anyway? Bit early for a bar crawl,” M teases. Or at least I think he’s teasing.
“Nah man, I’m just heading to the mosque for a funeral.”
M bites his bottom lip, regretting his flippant comment. “Sorry, fella.”
“Don’t be. It’s not anyone I’m close to. Just someone from my dad’s village in Pakistan. You know how these things are, you have to show your face, even if you haven’t seen them for 20 years.”
“Just like weddings!” I add.
M and his nameless work colleague look at me.
“I mean, it’s just like a wedding, where you invite everyone.” I think my joke fell flat.
M’s colleague laughs. “That’s true,” he says, before nudging M. “You got a good one here. I knew you were punching above your weight.” With that, he takes a playful jab at M’s belly, which seems to contract upon contact. “She’s funny, too.”
I’m not sure if he’s being sarcastic. However, there is no time to figure it out as the big-armed guy excuses himself.
“Gotta dash. I’ll see you at work,” he says to M before striding away through the crowds of flower bearers.
Once M’s colleague disappears round the street corner, I say: “You know you didn’t actually introduce us properly.”
“Sorry,” says M. “I didn’t realise. Anyway, that’s Kamran. We work on the same team.”
“I guess he’s not one of those you were talking about. You know, the one that drinks everyone else under the table.”
M huffs. “You have no idea. He’s the worst.”
We pass Brick Lane and cross over to cut through the less gentrified Altab Ali Park. M, my default tour guide, falters in his role, as he can’t offer much information on the origin of the name except to say that it’s in tribute to a Bengali man who was murdered.
“I don’t know much about it, to be honest with ya.” He shrugs his shoulders and does a bottom lip grimace again, as though he’s embarrassed.
There are other tributes to Bangladesh, in the form of a structure in the corner of the park. It takes me a minute to figure it out. It looks so familiar and I feel I have seen it a thousand times before. Then I remember, at home, my dad watching the news. It’s a reconstruction of the Bengali building in the capital city of Dhaka, which is used as the opening shot to introduce the Bengali news. I always figured it was kind of like Big Ben is to the UK. I never asked dad what that building represented, what was in it. I will next time I’m up. It will provide a talking point, as we don’t have many.
I see a man in his fifties, unmistakably Bengali, sat on a park bench with a can of lager in hand. His clothes look well worn, his navy fleece sports brown mud marks and his black shoes are scuffed beyond repair. When he catches my gaze he looks away.
“I’ve never seen a Bengali alcoholic,” I tell M.
“You get loads here,” he replies. “I even saw a homeless guy once when I came for a curry with my old flat mate. It was well weird. I don’t get how someone ends up on the street. Where are their families in all of it?”
I can’t help but agree. Every Bengali family I know is the same – caring to the point of overbearing. Given that my own family couldn’t cope with me even being single once I’d passed 25, I couldn’t imagine them letting me sleep rough.
As we’ve arrived unusually early for our viewing, I stop at the display on the other side of the park, which has more information. Altab Ali was stabbed to death in a racist attack in 1978. This was one of many attacks on British-Bangladeshis who had settled in the area. Some good came from the tragedy, as it led to protests against the racism Bangladeshis had endured. This man I’d never heard of, paid with his life in the very area that I’m standing and, as a result, things are better for me.
The flat is right opposite Altab Ali Park. I’d have to walk through it every day to take the tube into work. I’d have to go past it to get to the supermarket or to head to Brick Lane for a curry. I think I’m okay with that. Though there is a drunk on a bench and the area definitely has a more urban feel than where I’ve lived, I don’t feel scared here. I feel safe.