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Here are some things I was not told and, unfortunately, had to experience for myself. If you are flat hunting here, make sure you check the following:
1. The shower head
Turn on the shower and make sure that it works like a shower should. I failed to do this before I rented my previous room and ended up with a dribbly tap for a shower. Due to dated boilers, shitty shower heads, low water pressure, old building works or other reasons unknown, a lot of the flats in London have dribbly showers which will take you 15 minutes just to get your hair wet enough to wash. When it’s cold and you’re naked, you definitely do not want to be standing under a slow dribble of water.
2. Ask to speak to the landlord/agent directly
Very often the responsibility of renting out a room is given to another tenant in the flat, who will tell you everything you need to know. Presumably.
I’ve never had a problem with this since it’s the norm here, until I moved into my current room. I’d put my deposit down because who is now my flatmate told me that there is no minimum stay period, and only after I’ve moved in and the landlady came to collect the rent am I told that I must stay at least 6 months. Pisses me off, unnecessary haggling ensues, and you end up hating your flatmate.
3. Do not take people’s word for things to come
“We will get a TV, but we just have to wait till everyone moves in first so we can decide what we wanna get.”
“This wall here will be tiled on Saturday.”
“The bathroom light will be fixed tomorrow, we just have to wait till the landlord gets here.”
“We will get internet once you move in and we can all decide what contract we want. Yeah, I’m sure it’ll take just a week coz we have a phone line and everything is in place already.”
This is how I’ve come to have no internet access coz we don’t actually have a phone line. They may be wonderful people, and they may genuinely mean what they said. But works get delayed, disagreements happen, people are desperate for someone to move in, and idiots naturally don’t realize they’re idiots. If it’s not there, assume it either won’t be there for the next month, or that it’ll never be there.
4. No smokers, period
(If you’re a non-smoker and don’t like the smell of smoke.) They say they only smoke outside in the garden and that no smoking is allowed in the house. But really, “in the garden” means feet in the house, head poked outside, door wide open. They say they only smoke in their rooms with the windows open. But really, it gets everywhere.
5. Check your phone reception
Phone reception is taken for granted. What are we? Living in the third world?! Looking at a room one night, I wasn’t told that no one in the house had reception on their phones whatsoever (except for this one girl), until I took out my phone to use the calculator. Imagine if I’d actually taken the room. Ever since then, I’ve experienced different levels of reception in different flats. In one, I couldn’t really hold a conversation unless I step outside the house.
So there you go. Be ruthless. I’m was not.
Nasty and I took a road trip down to Bristol over the weekend.
This must’ve been our first real road trip together. I put together a happy playlist for the trip, Nasty drove, and I put on some outstanding entertainment with my singing. (He might tell you otherwise, but I seriously would have no idea why anyone would have a problem with my singing.)
Somewhere on the southwestern coast of England, Bristol is a great place to be. The weather helped too. It was sunny and warm, bright blue skies and fluffy white clouds all round. I even ditched my coat in the car for a day out! Until that day, I don’t think I’ve ever been out here without a jacket or coat before.
It’s a city big enough with everything, including a massive shopping mall, but on the other hand, it’s also got a very unique small-city/big-town-ish vibe to it. I felt that it was very quirky, artsy and creative. There are much more independing shops and businesses all round. Many of the houses may be old and narrow, but unlike London where similar places might give off a negative ghetto run-down gritty vibe, houses in Bristol have much more colour and character to them.
On the huge beautiful sky-roof of the shopping mall, we saw something I consider to be a clown who hung-himself-and-drifted-to-the-top-of-the-roof. i.e. A dead suicidal clown-corpse for all children to see. Yeay.
By the way, a shopping mall! This is the first shopping mall I’ve been in since leaving Hong Kong. Ahhh…feels just like home!
Perhaps greatly affected by the weather, or just the fact that I’ve escaped London or just being somewhere new, it felt very refreshing. Without the crowds of London, without the huge city feel of it, you suddenly feel like you can be someone for once; you can stand out if you want to; you can make something of yourself; you can try new things and not be shut out.
See, you can even make a bronze sculpture of a banana and have that displayed in an art gallery.
To be honest, I quite liked it. It’s like a rotten banana. Only it’s not rotten. (See, I definitely show talent for art critique huh.)
We also came across works by the infamous graffiti artist Banksy. Presumably. Considering he’s from Bristol, I assume they aren’t copycat works.
Spot the Banksy. He had some of his work auctioned off by Christie’s for huge sums of money, to which he said something along the lines of: “I can’t believe people are paying for this shit.”
Other sights we came across wandering about town: a red tsunami.
A Mighty Banana van. No, I have no idea what a mighty banana is. Together with the rotten-but-not-rotten banana in the art gallery, maybe it’s the mascot of Bristol.
And some robotic thing Nasty, naturally, likes very much. I really wonder why.
We went down for Jamie’s birthday, and we started the evening at The Farm, a pub in a huge stand-alone multi-storey house surounded by a big airy lawn dotted with picnic tables. It’s amazing as it seemed to be in the middle of a residential area, with proper lived in houses all around, yet here is this pub in the middle of it all. It was very lively and busy, yet not very noisy at the same time.
We later headed out to The Lanes, an American 50’s style bowling alley-cum-bar-cum-disco dance floor. It was also a lot of fun, except for the fact that, being made out to be an American diner, when I asked for iced chocolate, the guy behind the bar gave me a look. Then when I bravely made an attempt for a milkshake, he gave me The Look. So much for being an American diner. But the chilli dogs and fries were great though. They even have an old guy the age of your grandfather spinning old disco tunes to a dance floor of what could be his grandchildren!
Best of all, they have a foosball table. On the same par as bumper cars, it’s one of my favourite things to do. If I can afford it, I would spend a day alternating between foosball, bumper cars and rowing a boat in a park. That would definitely make a great day out. :)
I’ve lived for a while now without a TV, and it doesn’t bother me at all.
I used to veg out in front of the TV any chance I get back in Hong Kong. But here, even when I had a TV living with Nasty, I hardly ever touched it.I guess when you’re busy and working, any chance to sit like a retard with drool coming off the corner of your mouth was a bonus.
I’ve just moved into a new flat. No TV, no problem. But blimey, I have NO INTERNET ACCESS and it’s killing me.
Now I stumble down to a coffee shop, pay for an overpriced cup of tea and rush-use the free WiFi until my battery runs out.
Smart arse these little shops – they block all the electrical outlets. Grrrrr…..
And if you do find one where you can plug in and hang out all day, great.
You set yourself up, spread your file and papers and pens and notes around, sip your cup of tea and read the news…..until you really REALLY have to pee.
Do you put your trust in humanity and dash to the bathroom and hope your gear will still be there when you come back?
Or do you just pack up your laptop, bring it with you to the bathroom and set it down on the grubby floor which might also be wet?
Or do you pack your laptop and all your notes into your backpack, and hang your pack and coat up behind the toilet door, only to come back out and have to set up all over again?
Last night, I had my most bizarre experience of London yet, if not my entire life.
Walking home after paying a deposit on my new room, the streets were dark, empty, and quiet. Then I heard some grunting and groaning.
I looked around, focusing and refocusing my eyes in the dark, and was startled to see a guy hanging off a fence right in front of me!
The fence is about 2 meters high, spoked but not sharp. It separates the sidewalk from the grassy lawn of a residential building. He was sprawled over it face down, with his legs hanging off the outside of the fence. Imagine those people jumping off buildings and landing on fences in the movies? That’s how he sort of was.
He smelled like a drunk , obviously was trying to climb over and got stuck. I decided to carry on walking.
He went on groaning, and curiosity got the best of me.
I backtracked for a closer look, and saw that he’s stuck coz his jacket is caught on one of the spokes.
I said, “You alright?”, half expecting him to tell me to fuck off and let him be, thereby relieving myself of the “responsibility” to help.
He grunted, “Uh, not really.”
“You want me to help you?”
Another groan.
You’re not really supposed to leave someone hanging off a fence right? My mother brought me up right, but she never specified what to do if you find a drunk stuck on a fence. I’ll ask her next time.
So I stepped over, investigated his jacket some more, told him that his jacket’s stuck on the fence and that I’ll try and pull it off.
It didn’t work, so I told him to try and push up on the fence with his feet so I can lift his jacket up.
He kicked around with his boots, almost kicked me in the face and moaned that he couldn’t.
In the middle of this, I suddenly realized that this would make an AWESOME photo, but thought the better of it. If I’m going to help him get loose, the last thing I need is a drunk dude chasing me down an empty street.
I gave it some thought and said, “Look, if you don’t mind me cutting your jacket, I have a knife here and I can try and cut you down.”
He said to do whatever. So I went ahead, “Look, I’m gonna cut your jacket now, but keep your legs still and don’t kick me in the face ok?”
His jacket was tough, and my blunt swiss army knife is one I’ve been using for years. Who would’ve thought that this very cherished gift that my mom gave me for my 18th birthday and one I’ve carried with me everywhere ever since, and one I once haggled with airport security to not confiscate, is now used to cut a dumb fuck drunk down from a fence?
So I sawed off his jacket, and immediately realized that his trousers went through the fence too. Since the jacket is not supporting part of his weight anymore, his entire body is now hanging off by the arse of his trousers. They began to rip. I see his big white arse expanding in size right in front of my face.
I said, “Look, your trousers are stuck too and I’m gonna cut them off ok?”
At first, I was trying to be nice, cutting his jacket in a way that won’t cause too much damage. But as I cut one bit after another, it was starting to seem like I could be cutting forever and then I just went fuck-it and basically hacked at his clothes as I see fit. I DO NOT want the hole in his arse to get bigger. For no reason other than the fact that it’s in my face.
Because of the way he was positioned, there was no telling how much of his clothes were caught, and therefore how much longer I’ll be hacking. But all of a sudden, with no warning, he was cut loose, limbs flailing, kicked me in the chest and dropped to the ground.
I stepped back, hands in my pockets, an amused smile on my face, “You alright?”
Mumble mumble grunt grunt.
“What were you trying to do?”
“Climb over.”
“And why were you trying to climb over?”
Mumble mumble grunt grunt.
“Alright. I’m going ok? Bye.”
He mumbled some thanks, rubbed his arse, staggered up the street to the front door of this building and pressed a few buttons to try to get in. There is one big rip in the middle of his backside, a few other smaller holes where I’ve cut, and torn on his jacket.
I went home, told Stefi how I’ve just cut loose some stupid drunk fuck, who I assume lives in the building he was trying to get in.
The same building Stefi is moving into on Saturday. She was like, “Shiiiiiiiit.”
For lack of a cheaper activity, I went to the London Buddhist Centre yesterday and today to join a lunchtime drop-in meditation class for £1.
Me? Meditating? I’m the sort of person who did Muay Thai (Thai kick-boxing) for stress relief, and here I am doing meditation.
Being just a short walk from my apartment, being just £1 and no bookings necessary, so why not.
I’ve always been too self-concious, and so sitting in a roomful of strangers with my eyes closed makes me want to be that one annoying kid who sits with their eyes wide open smirking at everyone else.
I struggled to settle and relax, thinking: “Is everyone else really sitting with their eyes closed?” “Maybe someone is looking at me.” “Maybe I should open my eyes and stare back.” “But what if the teacher is looking at me?” “Fuck, I’m gonna sit an hour like this?!” “I think I need to pee.”
To me, meditation and yoga has always been a new-age hippy thing.
I play hockey. I played basketball. I played handball. For one reason or the other, contact sports get me going. I can unleash my rage and lose myself by concentrating on elbowing someone else. And in yoga and meditation, I don’t get to bash anybody!
The 2 sessions I went to were very different. Led by different teachers, they taught different styles/ways to meditate. And I realize both who your teachers are, and what style they teach can make a big difference.
I’m lucky that the first session I went to was taught how it was, because if my first lesson was what I experienced in the second, I would tell you that meditation is crap and you’re better off curling under some duvets at home.
Having a mind that wanders, the teaching of meditation using breathing techniques really helped ease me into being still and focused. The teacher gave points in our bodies to focus on. He taught us how to observe our breathing. It gives me something to concentrate my thoughts on.
In the second session, for one, the teacher simply wasn’t that good, and two, I had nothing to focus on. We weren’t doing breathing techniques. Instead, he told us to “feel compassion towards ourselves”. Then towards a friend, then an acquaintance, then a person you dislike. We were simply told to do it, but not how.
Dude, if I have that much kindness and compassion to begin with, I would be a friggin’ saint.
I dragged Stefi along with me today, coz she seem to be in quite a bad state these days. We should be going back tomorrow, coz it’s breathing techniques again. And until I get bored, breathing meditation (I know I don’t have the right term for it) seems to relax and clear my mind these days, so I just might be there for the next few sessions.
Unless, of course, someone finds me something else to do for £1.
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