A short ten minute stroll along the seafront and I’m home, in my flat in the old town. The original part of Margate is supposed, one day, to be seeing a renaissance whenever they start to build the proposed art gallery literally across the road from me. The old town is a reasonably pleasant area with a record shop and a handful of pubs (one a shithole) in the space of a few hundred yards. There’s even a comic shop for the geeks out there. But outside this green zone you’re back on the frontline of the chav.
The flat itself is reasonably pleasant, with high ceilings and the feeling of plenty of space. We’ve two bedrooms (useful for guests crashing out pissed or, more likely these days, to retreat into after an argument), a kitchen diner, living room and a decent-sized bathroom. For Margate the rent is high, for the south east of England it’s a steal. It’s where I live and sometimes where Claire stays with me. The flat is full of her stuff but she’s never officially been willing to move in, keeping her own place in London and staying either with me or her parents when hanging locally. I’m more of a weekend haunt for Claire these days.
I slam the front door to piss off the neighbours (who’ve four bastard kids that are so loud my ceiling seems to be made of rice paper) but mainly in an effort to make myself feel better after the call with Claire. The noise reverberates along the corridor, which all the rooms lead off, before dying as fast as it was born, like my brief and sadistic enjoyment.
I toss my bag and jacket onto the bed as I pass by. They bounce off the mattress and onto the floor. I stop in my tracks mid-thud. All the doors along the corridor are open which isn’t right because I’d closed them myself this morning before I left. Either Claire is playing a joke and is in the flat or, more likely, I’ve been robbed. I march the length of the corridor and glance briefly into each room — the other bedroom, bathroom, cupboard, living room. Everything looks present and in its place. Then I’m in the kitchen and walking straight into Konstantin, about as complete a surprise as I can imagine.
The tramp flashes me a toothless grin. In one hand he holds a half-drunk bottle from my Gadd’s stash and in the other the wallet (empty I expect) that he stole from me half a day ago. He raises the beer bottle in a salute.
“Nasdrovia.” he says and downs the rest of the contents.
Just when I think the day can’t get any weirder.