(un)Happy Places

(Essential background: I recently met up with an old friend from our Canberra days who is now here in London. He does not wish to be named on this blog, so I’ve cleverly disguised his identity.)

Last night my friend Clark Kent and I went to the National Theatre to hear Alain de Botton give a talk about his new book, The Architecture of Happiness. The book is all about the impact beautiful buildings and physical spaces (or lack thereof) can have on our sense of well-being, and the difficult question of the subjective nature of beauty in architecture (as in all things). It was interesting, and much of what AdB (as his good mate J,The likes to call him) had to say resonated with me for a couple of reasons:

Firstly, I was very recently in a place that was spectacularly beautiful, and it made me very happy.

Secondly, I am currently trying to find somewhere to live, and the places I have seen so far have been very unbeautiful, and it makes me far less happy.

Oh, my friends, the house hunt, it is depressing. I went to see a few places this weekend, and it made for quite an educational experience. Let me tell you about a choice selection of them….

***

Room the First

The first room was in south London, advertised as a ‘short walk from Elephant & Castle tube station.’ Well, I thought, that’s (public transport) Zone 1, that’s a good start. I remembered McBec’s glory days of living in Waterloo and wandering blithely across the bridge to Embankment to work every day, and entertained brief fantasies of doing the same myself.

Half an hour after I left the tube station I was still walking, wandering ever further south down a lengthy stretch of very dodgy street. I started to revise the fantasy.

The flat was dark and poky. It did have a living room, which was a plus (many houses use what should be communal space for an extra bedroom, to minimise rent), and a backyard – well, an outdoor concrete expanse with a dead potplant in the corner.

The room was tiny. Seriously, our bathroom at Westbury St was larger. There was no room for the wardrobe, so it was in the hallway. As devoted as I am to communal living, I don’t think a houseful of boys really need to see me stagger into the hall each morning to collect my clean undies.

The best part of my visit to this house was when I was making polite conversation after the tour (side note: why is it that I feel the need to have a full interview with these people, when I’ve managed to determine within thirty seconds that there’s no chance in hell that I’ll live there?). Anyway, he mentioned the high dodginess factor of the area, but assured me they’ve never had any problems with safety and suchlike, ‘other than the odd gang fight, but I just cross the street.’ Then he asked me if I knew Monopoly, and when I replied in the affirmative he boasted proudly that Old Kent Road, where this house was located, was ‘the least valuable property on the whole Monopoly board!’

I thought, dude, you really need to work on your sales pitch.

Room the Second

The second house was in Camden. Now, I love Camden – it’s a vibrant, bustling area filled with interesting people, great pubs and very cool markets. I was particularly excited to find a room advertised within my price range in that area, and was a full fifteen minutes early for my appointment. My prospective housemate met me at Camden Town station, and walked me less than 200 metres to the flat. This is good, I thought. This is very, very good….

The tour started well. A big, spacious living room, a great kitchen, a backyard with actual grass and gardens. Wireless! Storage space! I could barely contain myself. While my new friend demonstrated the excellence of the shower head, I held on to the bathroom railing to keep from swooning.

Then we walked downstairs to the room. I gazed in some puzzlement at what appeared to be some sort of optical illusion – everything in the room was doubled. Two single beds, two wardrobes, two matching bedside tables.

My tour guide must have seen my face fall. “Oh,” he said. “Did I not mention in the ad that the room was shared?”

No sir, no you did not mention that. Bastard.

“Yeah, we’ve had a few people disappointed about that. He looked at me hopefully. “He’s a nice guy, I promise. Italian, early 20s, very friendly.”

Now, before all of you pounce on me for turning down yet another stellar opportunity, let me just say: I don’t think so. If I’m going to pay that sort of money, I want my own room where the only 20-year-old Italian gentlemen who enter do so at my express invitation. Sigh. And so, on we go.

Room the Third

There’s a lot of engineering work happening on various Underground lines at the moment, so getting around town can be quite a lengthy process, particularly on weekends. It took me the better part of two hours to make it to my next destination, in the north-eastern corner of the city.

I wasn’t particularly inspired by the area once I got there, but I kept an open mind. Maybe this would be it. The rent wasn’t too bad, and it included all utility bills, so that had to be a good thing, right?

I was greeted very enthusiastically at the door by a 40-year-old Kiwi, who somehow managed to work into his introductory remarks the fact that he’d been backpacking for 18 years, and was still ‘loving every bloody minute of it.’ I was a little bemused by his effusiveness at first, but he seemed friendly and mostly harmless.

I can barely remember what the house looked like. This guy literally did not freaking shut up the entire time I was there. I heard all sorts of stories – about how he’s thinking of tearing down the dilapidated conservatory at the back of the house, ‘surely the landlord won’t mind’; the various leaks and broken appliances he’s recently fixed, ‘something about the electrics, but I’ve got it sorted I reckon’; the terrible problems he’s had with various females who have lived in the flat, ‘but you seem like a pretty decent sort of chick’; his status as a valued regular at three of the four local pubs, where one of his drinking mates is a brain surgeon, ‘yeah, he came in real handy last year when I busted my shoulder coming off my bike’ (?!). It was exhausting.

I think the room was okay, but I wasn’t really looking. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Strike three.

***

And so the search continues. It’s not all bad, I promise – I did see one place that was lovely – a little further out than I’d been hoping, but with great transport connections to many cool parts of town. The couple currently living there were friendly and easygoing, the house had been recently refurbished and had lovely wooden floors, a sunny living area and a big backyard. The room was a great size, with new furniture and huge windows. I was so relieved to find something decent I felt like hugging the housemates in gratitude. It’s probably for the best that I managed to restrain myself. The one drawback is that it isn’t available for another three weeks, but if they offer it to me I’ll take it and figure something out in the meantime. Cross your fingers, kids.

I’ve got a couple more to look at tomorrow, who knows what further excitement awaits. I think I’ll hold off on buying AdB’s new book for now, what he has to say might be a little too relevant.