I note,thanks to the ever-fascinating "Liverpool FreeCycle"bulletin which pingeth in an environmentally neutral way to my raffia inbox each day, that someone is offering a two-tier rabbit hutch. I do not have a two-tier rabbit,but oh! how I wish for one now.
I take it that the pampered bun has a duplex, and can wander up and down stairs, as the mood takes it. I lived in something similiar in London,but I had nary a stair. A flat so small that you could sit in the bath and see the television in the living room, should that be your idea of a good time, it was on the corner of a council block in Whitechapel. I loved it passionately, because it was two minutes from Mile End Road, which had a peculiar little market,and a couple of pubs;"The Blind Beggar",and "The Grave Maurice". They were jolly places, and attracted the odd tourist who had come along hoping to be shot at by the Krays.I had friends,and a cousin, just up the road in Bethnal Green, and felt like I was living in a film featuring Alfie Bass ,Joe Melia, and Yootha Joyce. And I was living alone, which was bliss. I am not a good co-habitee, being slovenly and eccentric. I like my own space, and I like to mess it up.You hear of women, and a few men, who can,with just a few scarves and deft placings of vases,make a house into a home. Well, I can make a house into a jumble sale, simply by unpacking the contents of my handbag.I liked coming home from from work and having a tiny bath,pouring a large G&T, stretching out on the miniscule sofa (with my feet,naturally,through the window), and reading "Little Women",the only book there was room for. Condensed, of course. Then,if the phone rang with some thrilling invitation or other involving free booze, I could drag up, grab keys,money, fags and lipstick, and go and have an adventure. Or not. This idyll lasted till the owner of the flat came back from living in a cave in Portugal,where he was "finishing his play for the BBC", which everyone knows means "hiding from the Police". In the ten minutes it took me to pack, I had somehow also signed up to live in Chingford. My flat there was perched atop a hairdresser's in Station Road. Downstairs lived two cheerful Americans, who were running a mysterious business which seemed to involve great big sheets of rubberised fabric,which bulged out into our shared hallway, and required them to be stoned beyond reason each evening. What with the fumes from the perming lotion and the strong odour of dope and rubber, I was permanently addled and getting through two cans of air freshener a day. Chingford was run entirely by tiny little old ladies. They gathered in truculent clusters outside the Co-op, patrolled the buses for signs of teenage misbehaviour, and massed in the hairdresser's downstairs,having their curly heads re-blued. Opposite me,there was the local takeaway and video store.Outside was Chingford's only street light, beneath which some mischievious Council person had caused a bench to be placed. Consequently, the jeunesse d'oree of Chingford all made a beeline for this attractive spot, using it for underage
drinking, smoking and loudly illegal al fresco sex. Too old and jaded to join in and too inhibited to film them for a future documentary series, I exhaustedly moved to Walthamstow. I had a house. It was red. The walls were red, like an old-style Chinese restaurant. It had thick red carpets, and a pink ceiling. There was a scarlet sofa with white cushions. It was like living inside someone's mouth. Walthamstow had the longest street market in Europe (who measures these things and how often?), and an impressive public library. It wasn't exactly handy for London, though. My most-frequently visited friends lived in Muswell Hill. This meant braving the 34 bus.I don't know what it was about that bus route, but all the 34 drivers were raving mad. Mostly young black men, they seemed to be competing against each other as to who could get the vehicle to its destination at the speed of light, and without ever stopping to allow a punter to get on or off,unless they could do it in two seconds. After being flung around the Lea Valley Road like a button in the drum of a washing machine a few times too many; I wrote the word "Help!" on a piece of paper and held it up to the window. However, none came,probably because there was no time for anyone human to read it.I think the drivers must have gone on to seek new high-speed thrills, working for the people who put the credits on the end of television programmes.
It was all getting a bit too exciting for me, and so I became a Crouch-Ender. Too poor for Hampstead or Highgate, and too lazy for Muswell Hill, (which WAS on a hill and didn't you know it) ; I arrived in North London Media Central.Neighbouring riff-raff including Neil Morrissey, Andy Kershaw, Dave Stewart, and more alternative comedians than was strictly necessary. You were never more than three feet away from a contemporary dance group. There was an Apothecary.
But I shall relate more about the Crouch End period another day. I am going back to "LiverpoolFreecycle" to see if the person wanting a glitter ball has had any joy. All human (and rabbit) life is there.
I take it that the pampered bun has a duplex, and can wander up and down stairs, as the mood takes it. I lived in something similiar in London,but I had nary a stair. A flat so small that you could sit in the bath and see the television in the living room, should that be your idea of a good time, it was on the corner of a council block in Whitechapel. I loved it passionately, because it was two minutes from Mile End Road, which had a peculiar little market,and a couple of pubs;"The Blind Beggar",and "The Grave Maurice". They were jolly places, and attracted the odd tourist who had come along hoping to be shot at by the Krays.I had friends,and a cousin, just up the road in Bethnal Green, and felt like I was living in a film featuring Alfie Bass ,Joe Melia, and Yootha Joyce. And I was living alone, which was bliss. I am not a good co-habitee, being slovenly and eccentric. I like my own space, and I like to mess it up.You hear of women, and a few men, who can,with just a few scarves and deft placings of vases,make a house into a home. Well, I can make a house into a jumble sale, simply by unpacking the contents of my handbag.I liked coming home from from work and having a tiny bath,pouring a large G&T, stretching out on the miniscule sofa (with my feet,naturally,through the window), and reading "Little Women",the only book there was room for. Condensed, of course. Then,if the phone rang with some thrilling invitation or other involving free booze, I could drag up, grab keys,money, fags and lipstick, and go and have an adventure. Or not. This idyll lasted till the owner of the flat came back from living in a cave in Portugal,where he was "finishing his play for the BBC", which everyone knows means "hiding from the Police". In the ten minutes it took me to pack, I had somehow also signed up to live in Chingford. My flat there was perched atop a hairdresser's in Station Road. Downstairs lived two cheerful Americans, who were running a mysterious business which seemed to involve great big sheets of rubberised fabric,which bulged out into our shared hallway, and required them to be stoned beyond reason each evening. What with the fumes from the perming lotion and the strong odour of dope and rubber, I was permanently addled and getting through two cans of air freshener a day. Chingford was run entirely by tiny little old ladies. They gathered in truculent clusters outside the Co-op, patrolled the buses for signs of teenage misbehaviour, and massed in the hairdresser's downstairs,having their curly heads re-blued. Opposite me,there was the local takeaway and video store.Outside was Chingford's only street light, beneath which some mischievious Council person had caused a bench to be placed. Consequently, the jeunesse d'oree of Chingford all made a beeline for this attractive spot, using it for underage
drinking, smoking and loudly illegal al fresco sex. Too old and jaded to join in and too inhibited to film them for a future documentary series, I exhaustedly moved to Walthamstow. I had a house. It was red. The walls were red, like an old-style Chinese restaurant. It had thick red carpets, and a pink ceiling. There was a scarlet sofa with white cushions. It was like living inside someone's mouth. Walthamstow had the longest street market in Europe (who measures these things and how often?), and an impressive public library. It wasn't exactly handy for London, though. My most-frequently visited friends lived in Muswell Hill. This meant braving the 34 bus.I don't know what it was about that bus route, but all the 34 drivers were raving mad. Mostly young black men, they seemed to be competing against each other as to who could get the vehicle to its destination at the speed of light, and without ever stopping to allow a punter to get on or off,unless they could do it in two seconds. After being flung around the Lea Valley Road like a button in the drum of a washing machine a few times too many; I wrote the word "Help!" on a piece of paper and held it up to the window. However, none came,probably because there was no time for anyone human to read it.I think the drivers must have gone on to seek new high-speed thrills, working for the people who put the credits on the end of television programmes.
It was all getting a bit too exciting for me, and so I became a Crouch-Ender. Too poor for Hampstead or Highgate, and too lazy for Muswell Hill, (which WAS on a hill and didn't you know it) ; I arrived in North London Media Central.Neighbouring riff-raff including Neil Morrissey, Andy Kershaw, Dave Stewart, and more alternative comedians than was strictly necessary. You were never more than three feet away from a contemporary dance group. There was an Apothecary.
But I shall relate more about the Crouch End period another day. I am going back to "LiverpoolFreecycle" to see if the person wanting a glitter ball has had any joy. All human (and rabbit) life is there.
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