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The flat I had was withdrawn due to issues with dog.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.