SO I MOVED TO LONDON…

 

SO I MOVED TO LONDON…

And a year or so in, rented this room - all in, sixty pounds weekly...

My habitat - above a smelly aul local pub - within its smelly old, staff quarters...

– one kitchen, one bathroom, three bachelors...

And the eighties 'vintage' furniture... dahling – sooo bang on trend!

My gender, in the house’s minority – I was quite tolerant, taking the odd, pre-caffeinated tumbles – ensconced in my early morning ablutions – into a loo – in it’s convenient, bachelor seat setting...

But soon, my desperation dwindled for this dwelling – and my tiny bugs were fertilised and fed – into filthy, great big and fat one’s...

And it was only as I sat upon a lightly, spackled jax seat – when a new morning dawned, and I pondered “Why would the boys be leaving behind their lacksey-daisical sprinkles – when they be parking their butts on it too?”

And then I stood up – landing my cleanly socked feet – in a bright neon puddle, pooling the perimeter of God's white porcelain telephone – my un delightful good morning treat.

And so, my stinking, slimy bugs fattened - arriving home from my sister's Christmas dinner – as I was greeted at the door - by the kitchen bin – all a’steaming - and a’putrid - and overflowing.

And half a body's weight in potatoes - squirmed in my festive tummy – happening upon a newly moved in family of maggots...

And it was their remarkably, distinctive odour that began heaving up my guts' half bottle of prosecco.

But with no one around, for to hand out a bollocking – nor to assign the ghastly removal task – I’d no choice but to approach – shoes a-crunchin' - through the boys' broken, beer glass remnants.

And I mouth breathed all the way to the skip – for to curse out the rotting, demon bin bag!

And by sweet Jesus - twas a gruesomely-manky' - mass-maggot murder!

But the maggots were only the dung – atop a bubblin', garden of bugs – and they beginning to creep and crawl beneath my skin...

“Well, may haps – I shall peruse for the new pad then...”

Though it was not until one night, gone midnight – that sealed my official heave ho – twas a night, when I had been pissed upon, thrice too many times.

It was the dodgy bathroom, beside my bedroom – with a squeaky, faulty wall fan extractor - and it had been playing up – for a yonk - maybe more –

And it became apparent, that it'd been left on throughout this dark night, when I was awoken with alarm - by the mostest alarming bells – and by the extractor, with an annoying noise factor – that’d ignited a ferocious fireball on the wall! And its white window blind - screamed through a ripping wildfire!

The few-pints-after-work bar staff – were nowhere to be seen – a slumber that was dead to the world.

And I ran up and down – chopping black-smoky thickness – a hallway-banshee a-howling “FIRE-F🔥CKING-FIREFIREFIRE!!”

We all sleep-ran down, to the pavement below - all... except for one brave bachelor – the Frenchman – returning to the source of the blaze..

And all of his might, fought with a solitary sword, with a fiery red, fire quencher. And our French fighting hero returned to us with a face - all blackened and a-spluttered, he waving off my gushing gratitude, for saving my worldly charity shop possessions –

 But I worshipped mostly the unfaulty alarm – for surely, I would’ve been the very first gone.

Then I goes:

“F🤬ck this sh🤬t!

And now - six years on - I clamber through my very own window – out onto the tar blackened roof – and I am Queen of this castle - ruler of an immaculately squeaky clean seat.

And to photograph this view - a bright-night, London chimney-line sky -

 is priced at an extortion pounds fifty...

But I know so well -

I'll only sit a little while -

For I do not know - if I’ll never know

What that place is -

Or if it truly exists –

That place -

Where I’ll want to live forever...