Friday, December 16, 2005


Have I mentioned how much I love Google Earth? (And Google? And Gmail? And my friend who works at Google? Hey Mitchan! Hope you see this at some point!)

Unfortunately, I can't run Google Earth on my steam-powered computer. I use AOL dialup, a relic from the Industrial Revolution. While I'm on the topic, I'd also like to add that if there is anything screwy in my blog, it's because AOL crapped out on me while I was uploading my post.

I'm currently going through a bout of the end-of-year blues. That's when you start thinking that your past was better than your present, regardless of how hideous it may have been. I decided to do a non-Google Earth picture search of my last home in London.

Not expecting to find much, I typed "Eversholt Street NW1" in Google Images. 4 pages of results!! Turns out most of the pictures were depressing newswire pictures, as some morons decided to blow up a bus in my neighborhood a while back.

See the white sign that reads "Euston Sauna"? That's where I lived, for the last portion of my London Life.

I couldn't have regular furniture because the floors sloped so dramatically that everything would topple over. The day I moved in, I put a little shelving unit with wheels in the corner. I went to the kitchen to make tea and by the time I came back, the shelf was sitting in the center of the room. I'm glad I didn't live there longer, because I think I would have developed scoliosis from standing crookedly for a prolonged period.

There was a little black mouse that would scurry out periodically and stare me down. Sometimes, the oven wouldn't turn off. There was a hot water meter, which was designed to take coins. COINS, people.

I have to admit I've had worse bathrooms, though. 2 flats before the quasi-brothel, I lived in a "studio" in King's Cross (King's Cross station, left. Is that Jackie Stallone in the car?!). It was more of a broom closet, as far as I'm concerned. There was no bathtub - only a tiny shower cubicle. My first night there, as I was shaving my legs in the shower, I lost my balance and landed in the living room. Dripping wet and covered in bubbles, I was lying in the small space between the barely-2 seater sofa and the telly (on which I could watch a whopping 3 channels - on a clear day).

Back to the Eversholt Street flat. I found it through a young estate agent who worked a few doors down the street. Normally, I wouldn't say he was my type.... But I was bored, and there was something cute about him. Plump, covered in freckles, with big brown eyes and a fashionable mullet. He sounds horrible but he really was quite cute.

He showed up at my flat the night I moved in, supposedly to help me fix things up. English guys (excuse me, blokes) seem to be very much into fixing up properties. They've got television shows about making their dwellings habitable. They all want to re-paper your walls and sh*t. Anyway, Chubby and I had a little thing, until I found out he was living with his girlfriend (who was paying half his mortgage). Actually, it was over before that. The turning point came when I realized he couldn't spell "thumb". Fumb? Yet another London Love Story That Wasn't Meant To Happen.


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