The Sound of the Suburbs

I may be sleeping on an air mattress in someone else’s house at the moment, but there was something wonderful about opening the blinds this morning and looking out over the back garden, and indeed someone else’s back garden beyond it. It may only be a few miles from my old box-room, nestling in the shadow of a four storey block of flats, but it’s a whole other world.
Out I stumbled into the morning sun, and made my way to the bus stop where other bleary eyed residents were congregating, some eating their breakfast, as joggers struggled past. Birds tweeted, cats stretched and fresh air wafted up my nostrils. I’ve always wanted to live in the suburbs, ever since I was a little kid, and remarkably at the grand old age of 28 this is my first experience.

I grew up in the country (well, I say country, it was actually just outside a village best described as "three large housing estates in the middle of nowhere") and was always envious of my mates who all lived in the nice part of town, and their ability to walk home from school and hang out with each other. Their houses always had a particular comforting smell as well – sort of 2 parts fried food, two parts tumble drier and one part bread. Where I lived in a modern split level bungalow, they lived in pretty 1930s houses. I wanted to be like them. I overshot slightly and spent the ten years after I left home in urban flats of varying degrees of scum. But now, thanks to homelessness, here I am.

As we pootled along the road this morning, I gazed dreamily out of the window at the massive houses sliding past, the mummies taking their kids to school, the general genteel normality of it. "I can’t wait to be a grown up", I thought. "Why do I insist on paying a fortune to live in Zone 2 when my friends get a 6 bedroom house out here for less than I pay?"

I’ll tell you why. Left the house at 7.50am. Half an hour later, I was only in Brixton, roughly 5 metres from where I used to live. Had to get off the bus and take the tube, which I hate, or else I would have been about 20 minutes late for work (note – West Dulwich to the Strand – approximately 6 miles. In 90mins. Maths fans will note that equates to an average speed of 4mph). Those 30 minutes were spent listening to some airhead go on to her mate about how some relative was in hospital, and describing everything that was wrong with him in gory detail. Then the girl in front of me started singing along to her ipod. At least I had my copy of the Metro to keep me company. Oh no, wait. You don’t get it out in the sticks (guess the name should have given it away). And last night I ended up paying 12 quid for a mini cab to get us home from the pub, and it still took us longer to get there than if I’d walked to my old flat. At least I made Craig get a KFC.

Bugger this for a laugh, I’m sticking with the grimy, grey, urban squalor until such times as I can afford a car, don’t want to work in the centre of town anymore, and have stopped needing to drink to have a good time.