That's quite enough of that

In the words of Richard E. Grant, "Balls." But, like, in a good way.

Flatmate is soon come, and with him half the rent, thank Jebus. More significantly, though, with him comes good company and regular washing-up, no but really, he is very good people as we re-established during his recent visit. We used to sit in a boring job wondering why we'd been blessed with all this brain we weren't using, emailing each other silly crap to stay afloat. One day we emailed entirely in haiku. Heh. He is even more apologetic for his very existence than I am, so I've decided we should have a Sorry Box. At 50p per expression of contrition, I reckon we'll raise enough every week to get shitfaced every Friday.

Not that it takes me much, admittedly.

Other recent badness-cancelling things of late have included my birthday, which involved lots of laughter and love and a gratifying number of bottles for the recycling man. And a cake, even. Blueberry chocolatey cake and candles. I blew them all out in one go. I am big.

Also, this town is great. I know three of my neighbours which is practically worth a documentary. The town itself has got amazing heritage, and here and there some staggering examples of fearsome Art Deco architecture. There's a certain brash confidence and angular arrogance and fearlessness and gorgeousness about things from the 1920s that I love. No sense of how much worse things were going to be - they thought the very absolute worst was behind them. The town hall is this vast breathtaking stern white Russian thing, and the assembly hall next to it is about as amazing with its roof-height glass doors and the shouty motto

FELLOWSHIP IS LIFE - LACK OF FELLOWSHIP IS DEATH

That's me told.

There is also one duck, called Gerald, that sits by the fountain and looks imperious. Good old Gerald.

The downside of all this gloriousness is that the cinema - boarded up for the last two years or so, which is bad enough because me likee films on doorstep - turns out to be a Grade II listed example of Art Deco sexiness also. If it had just been the shitty 60s joint I thought it was it wouldn't be such a travesty that it's lying neglected. It's just covered in nasty white tiles with one of those concretey outcrops over the door and a grotty white vertical cinema sign, and smells of what the Scottish call 'pish'. But the other night I went over the road to look up at the building properly, and it has these long slender elegant windows and is sad and beautiful. Bugger.

Window still isn't fixed. But dog is healthy, blue flowers are sprouting in big clusters in the garden, and I'm grateful for wot I got.

Oh, and that there is a red-arsed bumblebee. It got into my bedroom and the dog nearly ate it. I got it in a glass. It was waving its front legs in the way bees do when they're asking the bee god to come and lift them up. I gave it a blob of Lyle's Golden Syrup. It continued the bee dance of death for a while until it discovered the sticky medicine, then fell to sucking at it with immense and solemn concentration. When it had finished after half an hour or so in a syrup trance, I put it on a flowery plant in the garden. It fell off. I scooped it up again. It sat for a second and then took off, flying off at tree-height.

Ah small things, and small things with furry legs that need sugar.

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.