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?
