Notice to Quit

The Residents’ Meeting and the Butter Dish

Hi guys, I’m baaaaack!  Oh dear, our dear, dear [sic] leader has commented that I ain’t done [sic] a blog for some time, ah, I’ve gone all coy, only joking my sugar pops.  Let’s see now, oh yes, I went to a residents meeting the other evening in the old warehouse where I live.  We talked about boring whatnot such as fire regulations and what to do with the common room, no I’m serious, we do have one.  My mate Eddie wanted it turned into a brothel, naturally I supported him and we were both given the cold shoulder for the rest of the evening, only kidding; everybody just thought that’s Andrew and his friend being silly. 

I enjoyed my self immensely, why, because of the people who attended.  The suits from the housing association were pure middle-England.  They pronounced every syllable and probably lived in places like Sidcup or Swanley.  Sweet in their own way, they probably had children who are firefighters or policemen. I’m sorry, no I’m really sorry for starting the blog in this way; I was going to mention solders fighting in…the remainder of this paragraph has been deleted by Eddie ‘cos he says my life won’t be worth living if I continue in this vain.

Middle-England they were not, that’s the residents I mean.  Loads of the guys were gay, everybody was either of that condition and/or yuppyish, artistic, looked intelligent, sensitive, refugees, transgendered, mad and, and one word sums them all up – vulnerable.  I got talking to a guy who’s a surgeon at the Royal London.  He explained that where I live, everybody has to be referred by an agency so for instance, the refugees sponsored by the church are there because they kept getting bashed up for being, um, refugees, in their previous abodes.  Others have mental health problems, are ex drinkers or former (?) drug users.  The surgeon has a history of drug and mental health issues too and I wasn’t entirely convinced that I’d be happy if he cut me open, I mean, supposing he relapsed or something. 

There was one rather poignant theme which kept coming up, namely, that residents kept telling the housing trust people that this was his or her home and how they loved it here.  They really did, it wasn’t phony in the least, these neighbors of mine for the first time in their lives felt safe.   I think, they also in truth, found the brothel idea rather amusing although I subsequently said I thought the common room could perhaps be better used as a café serving a full English.

Later in Eddie’s flat with the Missus, I said that I was astounded that people living in a converted flower mill in Rotherhithe could actually call this place home.  Eddie agreed with me but then we’ve both come in via the St. Mungo’s scene and I told him that I felt different to the others.  The Missus was completely incapable of saying anything constructive at all, I’m not even sure she knew  she was on planet earth, but there you are.

I think one of the problems is that my housing association is always trying to kick me out.  OK, OK, I know that I’ve got behind with the rent from time to time but this endless issuing of Notices to Quit can drive a guy crazy.  I mean, I’ve had to contact my MP five times to get these silly things stopped and then, and then we start all over again.  I must be the only person in the entire block who is still living on a 12 month starter tenancy and I’ve been here almost three years.  Basically, if this ever gets to court I’m out – no real legal rights and whatnot – and yet, the housing association have a mortal fear of adverse publicity and they know that in our correspondence, I generally copy in the local press which somehow keeps things at bay.  Oh, how they’d love to chuck me out but what a story, middle aged ex drinker with dodgy liver and kidneys chucked back on the streets, wow, I’d certainly have my day in court – in court you can say what you like without it being defamatory you know.

Of course, they’ll get me one day and that’s the problem, they know it and I know it and that’s why I don’t feel at home here. I suppose at some point I’ll have to move on even though I don’t want to move on and yet in a way I do.  I’m quite used to having to move on when I don’t one to and have written about this in an earlier blog called ‘Evictions of the World Unite’.  Having to move on when I don’t one to move on has become a bit of a way of life and so to the butter dish.  I’ve been after one for sometime and finally found one at Tesco – porcelain - at £6.25  You see, I’ve never bought anything for my flat because of the problem of  having to move on when I don’t…OK, I’ve bought some teaspoons, an alarm clock for work, a cheapo picture of Marylyn Munroe and some plastic flowers.  What I have not bought is the TV – green & white - mattress, fridge, microwave, all the furniture, table spoons and a radio/cassette player; kind gifts from neighbours. 

I suppose in my heart of hearts I’m not totally at home in London.  It’s a wonderful city but I’d rather live in NYC, San Francisco, Los Angeles or Paris. It may be that I should live in cheap hotels and then up sticks when I get bored.  If my job becomes permanent, I might just do that.

Because of having to move on when I don’t one to move on, everything gets junked and I end up buying the same little things over and over again from coffee pots to CD racks.  Sometimes, I look for things and then remember that the iron disappeared after the last having to move on.  I could of course buy a van and then when having to move on when I don’t one to move on, it’s only courtesy of the traffic warden.      

Back to the residents meeting and all that kafuffle.  Some were complaining about the window cleaners abseiling down the outside with the possibility of catching residents in the nude – what the fuck do I care.  Or how about void units, eh?  Here’s one, we have a new caretaker, yippee, I’m so happy or something about the loft space; now my ears pricked up.  In the past, when I’ve had to move…I sometimes stored stuff surreptitiously, the bailiffs don’t always catch on. I’ve currently got things stored in three separate places overseas. You can even kip in a storage space for weeks, just make sure you have extra keys cut before having to etc.  Maybe this summer, I’m going to move on because I want to, now I’ve not done that for years.

Cheers

Andrew