north

Other place I have lived, North of the river:

Rayners Lane: geraniums on the landing; a musty, old-person smell; a garden I'd played in all my life. Catching the midnight Piccadilly tube back after another stint in the Covent Garden General Store, watching amused as a little aspirational fascist explained how to stack a shelf of shortbread in the appropriate fashion. Coming back to Rayners Lane once last time after George died, and suddenly the grief hit me in a red phone box: the empty flat, shorn of its hard-earned sense of life.

Fulham: a woman who became a TV executive complaining about money and the fact that I'd forgotten to switch the answerphone on. Getting the 14 bus back from South Kensington. A cupboard that was falling to pieces.

Islington: a shed with a leaky tin roof. Luckily it was Summer. Bequeathed to me by Bruce who'd lost the love of his life to Reilly, Ace of Spies (also known as Sam Neill) "I mean, mate, I never stood a chance." The landlord who wrote books about subterranean London, permanantly stoned, sitting out in his garden, smiling benevolently.

Plaistow: freezing cold all the time. Nothing there. Tina and Arita raising eyebrows. A place that felt unsafe. A long walk from the station. Hinterland.

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Never lived in any of them for much more than six months at a time, although lived on and off at Rayners Lane for two years. The North never had a strong grip on me. See whether it's any different this time.