In 2011 I wrote this, a post about London life. It reads like one of those Tourist Guide reviews on the web. Unique, decent attractions, good transport links but be prepared to feel lonely and skint. Two-and-a-half stars. Well, 10 years on and I’m still in London and no longer that tourist.
Funnily enough my head began to turn not long after I published that post. I stumbled my way into a job as a TV listings sub editor at the Press Association in Howden, not far from Leeds. I had been unemployed for a long time and although I was applying for jobs regularly – about 15 a week – my confidence was so low that these applications became more like vague punts; waiting for the inevitable thanks but no thanks responses. In the evenings I'd go to an Arab cafe to get away from it all and live on the other side of the world for an hour.
The interview invitation email said that it was advisable to get a taxi from Howden station because it was a 30-minute walk to the office. Fair enough. I reached the station at about 11.30, expecting to find the usual platforms with mini cafes, maybe a mini WH Smiths, stairs with various signs and exits and, er, a taxi rank.
Howden is a stop on a main line route from King’s Cross St Pancras towards Scotland so not exactly beyond expectations. Instead, nothing. A boarded up cafĂ© and a slightly disturbing route to the exit by crossing the tracks. I was also the only person to leave at the stop. True, there was a pub, The Barnes and Wallis Inn, but it didn't open until midday.
It started pissing it down. I began the walk to Howden, which took about 15-20 minutes at a fast pace. Howden is officially a town but couldn't be more village-like if it tried, the most amusing feature being a cafe that closed for lunch. The Press Association was tucked into a corner approaching a main road. The interview went pretty well: a combination of a chat followed by a various subbing tests.
I had booked a ticket for the return train journey that was two hours away so had time to go for a pub meal. Hmmm, I could actually live here, I thought, but to be honest I didn’t really think about the practicalities because my gut feeling was that I wouldn’t get the job – I didn’t finish one of the tests – and despite very encouraging feedback I was right. But two weeks later I got a call from the interviewer as someone had resigned. I was a bit flustered as I’d just come home from another rare interview in London but I said yes. That was as good as it got.
I signed the contract but from that point on it was clear I
was being messed around. My first task was to find somewhere to stay. That
actually went very well. I visited the area again and despite having narrowed
my options to three, I already knew what my first choice was based on the friendly
chat I had with the couple who owned the house, and photos of the room. It was
in Goole, a 20-minute bus ride to Howden and the job was 9 to 5. What could go wrong?
At that point, nothing. However, a few days later I got an email from the
company telling me I would be working in a different team so I needed to sign
another contract. I was a bit miffed although there was one bonus: it used a
shift pattern that totalled a four-day week, and this would give me an extra
day to spend with my partner in London at weekends. I sent an email asking if
they would book me taxis home for late shifts. Rather than a friendly response I
got a stern are-you-having-a-laugh-esque reply with some capitalised words in
bold and underline. Charming. In retrospect I should have given them a polite
fuck-your-contract then and walked away but I couldn’t; this was a job with a
big company and who knows what opportunities could arise. So I reluctantly
signed the new contract.
I told my would-be landlady, who was understandably concerned
by this, and after some research she found me two late-night taxi services, one
of which claimed to be a 24-hour service. I later found out that this service
was operated by one person and that he only worked during the night when he had
a big job such as taking someone to an airport. Great. The other company was
based several miles away and its drivers were unwilling to operate at stupid
o’clock for similar reasons. Early mornings were just as bad. I was due to work
an early weekend shift, only to find out that the main taxi company in Goole,
despite being open, didn’t operate until 9 am, and the first bus service was
about an hour away.
In the first 48 hours of the job I found myself having to sign two more contracts: in the first instance my terms had changed; my notice was period had been slashed from one month to one week. Then the guy from HR had a little chuckle, confessing that this contract ran back to front so I needed to sign one more.
I quite liked living there with its slower pace and the
chance to say good morning to complete strangers and thanks to the bus driver –
thankfully I already knew the etiquette as my early years were spent in the
north – but by Friday I couldn’t wait to get out. Work, or the shift system at
least, was a hopeless mismatch; I didn’t have a car, couldn’t get one for health
reasons, and I wasn’t happy with the lack of support from the powers-that-be on
that. I did like the team I worked with, and the team leader was kind enough to
give me lifts home when possible, even though he lived in the opposite
direction, but ultimately it didn’t work out. Two months later I was
practically shoved out of the back door. I felt depressed as I hadn’t done
myself justice in the role I had but then again it wasn’t the job I applied for.
Ten years on and I’m living in Stratford, East London, with
my partner. We stayed in Cricklewood for another five years, moving up the
renting ladder to a one-bedroom flat in a block of 30 that was converted from
an old people’s home. It was superbly managed and it was a tough decision to
leave but we found ourselves with enough funds to step on to the property
ladder. Our main criteria was a home near transport links. We were also
targeting trendy newbuild two-bedroom flats but quickly realised that it was
almost impossible as they were snapped up at a rate so rapid that any
appointment we made was cancelled by the time we’d set foot.
Initially we looked at Watford as I’d lived there but found out that it would be more expensive to travel into London so we inched closer to Harrow, which looked a good bet geographically but was too expensive. We then tried Tottenham, where a new trendy area was rapidly growing not far from Tottenham Hale station, which had some great connections. But like in Harrow, all the properties were being snapped up faster than the proverbial hot cake. We spoke to a newsagent about the area as a whole. "Well, um, it's not as bad as it used to be," he replied. The final nail was a chat with a work colleague, who said, "Ah yes, that's where the London riots started."
Having said that, Stratford's reputation wasn't much better but there was a strange charm about it. The first time we walked through the shopping centre the atmosphere was vibrant. During some evenings after the shops had shut there were random classes or events taking place, including breakdancing and skating. There was a massive beatbox booming and it felt like we had gatecrashed a Run DMC video. Westfield shopping centre had also recently opened and I was initially obsessed about it; seemingly everything I wanted was there, and there was a Food Court providing food ranging from Japanese and Indian to Caribbean and Italian. Oh, and fish and chips as well. Then I remembered I was a thirtysomething bloke who didn't like shopping.
The Olympics had just taken place and suddenly it all made sense. The deciding factor was the transport links, which knocked spots off the vast majority of stations outside central London. Two tube links, various overground routes, national rail services to the south and east and two separate tramlines. It was like the railway equivalent of the Spaghetti junction, only more interesting. Our house was a five-minute walk from a tramline that ran to London International Airport within 20 minutes.
I look at my time in Howden with fondness. Pleasant, friendly people, a more relaxed lifestyle. But ultimately the highlight was a trip to the station every Friday evening. Hundreds of people would be walking together on the road for about a quarter of a mile, then veer into a floodlit car park, leaving me to trudge on in pitch black as street lamps disappeared. After 20 minutes The Barnes and Wallis Inn greeted me, and with two hours to spare I would enjoy a three-course meal. On the train and in first class - booking weeks ahead can be extremely rewarding - plenty of hot chocolate and snacks were served.
No matter how tired I felt, once St Pancras welcomed me about three hours later I knew I could switch to autopilot and exploit the many paths that would carry me home.
