Leyton Schmeyton

No, I totally meant for it to come out like that. Sh.

And the greatest of these is pie

The alleyway light has gone. I haven't been out there at night for some weeks because the back door is buggered, but it's quite a sight from the window. Or a lack of sight. Rather calming, the pure black offset by angular reflections from inside and a grey outline of the college wall, other outlines depending on how much of a moon there is - although I'm sure it has the opposite effect if you're actually out there.

The flat I had was withdrawn due to issues with dog. Curses. But I found a better one, little further along from the tube but very close to a park, and displaying many of the endearing qualities of this house. This perturbs me slightly, as it's a bit like recognising the characteristics of old boyfriend in new one, but what the hell, I demand grace and charm and fireplaces. Fireplaces, dammit! These were installed by the gracious and charming landlady, who lived there herself for 15 years. I felt quite emotional. I do wish living spaces didn't have such an effect on me. I blame 67 Clifton Common with the stairs you had to abseil down.

The estate agent was a lanky blonde South African who was also charming, although charm seemed to be something he had rather than something he did. Hard to tell with estate agents. The one I had before was French and used to complain about how rude Parisians were. This one was at least an improvement on the artful git who assured me the first flat was in the bag. I asked him to ask the landlord of the other place I'd seen (pokey, dingy, other words which maybe should have an 'e' or maybe not) if he'd take the dog. When I went back later to tell him that I'd found somewhere else, he looked at me in some degree of shock and dismay and said he'd just spent ages persuading the landlord to let me and my beast live in his hovel. I wasn't there for more than a couple of minutes, collecting my forms, but he sulked for an eternity. Boo fucking hoo, you berk.

(I did express my gratitude, by the way, I didn't pull a face or anything. I just thought he was outrageous in his unprofessional guilt-tripping.)

Having met the landlady of the other place and bade tree-boy goodbye I wafted down Walthamstow high street all pleased. It was Saturday and something was going on in the open space near the top of its long pedestrianised beginner-slope. They were turning on the Christmas lights. There was hip hop dancing, and I cannot remember whether or not that's supposed to have a hyphen - I think not, actually. Then there was a town cryer who looked especially ridiculous and particularly Caucasian in the big unruly gaggle of light-plunger-pusher-downers on the stage. I was even more pleased. Flow of mild endorphins through system. It's the sort of feeling that you have to acknowledge because you know it to be unusual and precious, like an English summer day that succeeds in being summery throughout.

Pretty lights, too, obviously.

This is apparently one of the oldest pie and mash shops in London. I'm afraid I was overcome with sepia. Humble apologies.

Plaintive mechanical squeaking

I've been in London for what seems like about a month. This is a good thing, by the way, exhausting as it is. Set off from ye north at 4.20 on Friday, and embarked on an epic journey full of disappointment, anguish and the shocking waste of a perfectly good sausage roll (I sacrificed it to my wrath on a cold hard Manchester platform). I arrived at Euston just before midnight. Not bad going. Still, limp and drained as I was from hours of bother and boredom, I still felt that wintery zing shoot through my system when I trudged out of the station. It's no wonder I got tired after four years here. It's just like crack, only not quite as healthy.

I managed to leave my gloves, which had always had a doomed 'our alliance shall be fleeting' air about them, in the cab. They join my star-shaped silver watch on the honours list of fondly-remembered lost objects which were sacrificed to a noble cause. (The watch fell out of my pocket when I was rolling in the grass at Homelands, just outside the tent where The Orb were playing at 4am. I wasn't wearing it as I was allergic to it. Tsk. The Orb were good though. Or were they? Didn't matter.) The gloves were black leather and suede, a tiny bit too big, too thin and delicate to do any real hand-warming. They were obviously some deceased individual's 'for best' and hadn't been worn since their purchase maybe 40 years prior to my snaffling them from a charity shop in Kentish Town. A stamp on the inside of one proclaimed they had been finely crafted by Marshal & Snelgrove. I'll use those in writing one day when I need some 'fine gentlemen'.

Yesterday, having bought some replacement gloves, I managed to somehow bugger the zip on my bag and had to get a replacement for that, as I didn't want to walk around the centre of London with an open bag. It's been a bad week for accessories.

More significantly, I may have an East End flat, which I will be installed in within a month if everything comes up rosy. Currently waiting to find out if my forms and references indicate I'm some sort of criminal who doesn't deserve to work like a dog to pay rent in anywhere nice. In this instance I may have to sacrifice a Greggsful of savoury pastries to the pointlessly vengeful gods of unfocused rage.

"These are the grapes, and this is the wrath."

"Ooh, that's good wrath."