Why I would rather live with strangers than friends in London
Why I would rather live with strangers than friends in London
Share:
I met up with another debut writer for a drink last week. Alice. Over two large wines, Alice told me she’d recently had to sell her lovely flat after a big breakup. This was, of course, not part of her plan, and she’s now living in a house share in Bromley-by-Bow with a woman she met online, who needs 48 hours advance warning before Alice invites any friends round. Though this is far from ideal, Alice told me she much prefers it to the risk of living with a good friend. There’s so much less to lose this way.
When I first moved to London, I was full of hope. I was going to move into a flat with an NW postcode — I was and still am an obsessive Zadie Smith fan — and yes, it would cost me 80% of my modest salary every month, but I would be a Londoner. And I was going to be living with my oldest and dearest friend. What could possibly go wrong?.
.png?quality=75&auto=webp&width=960)
By the second week in our new flat, it became abundantly clear that my oldest, dearest friend could no longer stand the sight of me. Everything I did annoyed him. He’d have elaborate dinner parties in our poky dining-cum-living room with his management consultant friends, and I’d find myself eating a Dr. Oetker pizza on my bed with the door closed, feeling I’d made a huge mistake. He accused me of “living like a student” — we were 24.
He was earning well at his job in the City, while I was in my first publishing job and had very little disposable income, so our lifestyles simply weren’t aligned. Inviting him for walks or coffee dates, I tried to remind him that, first and foremost, we were friends. He’d look at me, confused, and say, “But I can just see you at home?”.
.jpeg?width=1200&auto=webp)