London Loves

London on a fleet, breezy morning. Everything in this sidestreet is bleached and sun-dazzled, like an image from an old polaroid. And this is how the city seems: like library footage, something called up at short notice from the archives to fill the space left by my office job. The houses are sturdy, two-storey, fronted with pale yellow bricks, with plaster porticos hugging the doors and bay windows. They seem intensely familiar, remembered not from my own childhood but from the childhood of every single sixties rock star- you can easily see a young Jagger or Lennon or Moon squirming behind the net curtains, looking out at the English rain and wishing that the bombs would fall again. The tree outside my window is a lollipop of dusty olive leaves and bright orange berries, the colours of a dress from the seventies, you’ve got to remember, your great-aunt wore it to your mum’s wedding, she looked weighty and mysteriously troubled and older than she does now. A cabbage-white, a butterfly that practically belongs on Super 8 film, flits among the trellises across the road. The whole scene is soothing, predictable, almost advertising itself as gentle backdrop for the harried creative. All I’ve got to do, it seems, is sit down and start writing. Well then, here I go…

So, what’s been happening? What has been happening? If all you’ve got to go on are the posts on Moving Sideways, you’re probably looking for a bit of extra context around now. According to the blog, Ben awoke from a deep sleep at the beginning of August and promptly threw himself into an exhausting rota of activity- contracting a series of driving lessons, going flat-hunting, hymning French boulevardiers, travelling to Greece, evading forest fires- before lapsing once again into sullen indolence. According to the blog, Ben is Robert De Niro out of Awakenings. And sometimes I feel tempted to leave him to his slumber… But while Ben’s been sleeping at the wheel in here, outside, in the real world, there’s been a few genuine changes going on.

Last Friday, I finished in my job. My contract in London was up, and I decided, for personal reasons, to remain here under my own steam rather than return to Dublin. A bit more contentiously, I also decided to stay home for a year, and try to support myself through my writing. When people ask me exactly how, I tend to get vague and self-righteous at the same time, which is so not an effective rhetorical device. I will TRY AND FREELANCE, I tell them. I will SORT OUT A FEW PROJECTS HERE AND THERE. The important thing is that I will be FENDING FOR MYSELF. As opposed to, you know, LIVING OFF MY SAVINGS. All I’ll need for a 21st century media career is unparalleled moxie, the internet and A DOG-EARED COPY OF THE WRITER’S AND ARTIST’S YEARBOOK 2001. And if all of this gives them any problems, they can FUCK RIGHT OFF. Like I said, not the most refined of mission statements. Still, I’m looking forward to putting it into practice.

A few days previously, I left my work-sponsored flat in a swanky but soulless part of London, the kind of area where the traffic meters make more than the traffic wardens, and moved with E. into our new place in Shepherds Bush. This is where I expected to be confronted by the grim realities of modern London, pulled up short by real life. But all in all, the change has been incredibly positive. The flat itself is a dream; cosy and stylish and bright; the kind of place that’s made for literary poseurs. Three days in, and I have already adopted the most writerly pose imaginable- sitting in the front room, staring out an open window, with a full cafetiere on the table beside me and a lopsided think bubble of a mirror above my head. The landlord is young and enthusiastic, and genuinely eager to help; in any of our contacts with her we’re all competing to see who can do best by the place. The neighbours are pretty friendly too, and those who aren’t manage at least to be pleasantly crotchety, in a crumpled 1950s way. And, like I said, the neighbourhood is damned comfortable, a version of urban London as soft-edged as any Madness song. Even the annoyances are quite enjoyable. In my old place, I was regularly blasted out of it by tightwad Europop from the coked-up Norwegian asset-stripper upstairs, God bless his soul; now I’m sporadically charmed by bursts of glitchy electronica from the hip-hop kids in the garden flat next-door, erratic beats popping against the wall like corn in a pan.

Sure, sometimes I feel the absence of the old job, and occasionally crave its jagged contours; but only in the absent, compulsive way you prod your tongue into the space where a tooth used to be. I miss the early morning immersion and the break-down into coffee at eleven-ten. I miss the company, and the banter, obviously. I miss the adrenalin jolts at odd hooks and angles of the day, when a stray phone call or email pulls your job description taut about your neck. I even miss the information: the two fat morning papers folded on your desk, the bloated 9am inbox, the sense of starting out every day at ground level on a massive trading floor of news. Most of all, I miss the occasional sense of fulfillment; of producing relevant copy, of being of use.

And this is where the blog comes in. I resurrected Moving Sideways about a month ago, and I guess this break was always at the back of my mind. I’m hoping to keep it updated fairly regularly from now on in, partly to instill the discipline of producing something creative on a daily basis, partly to gear up my rusty writing brain, but mostly to make sure I don’t get cabin fever in here on my own, goddamnit. So over the next while, you can look forward to frequent updates on everyday life in Shepherds Bush, more trawls around the further reaches of the chessboard, plus, if I can manage the upload, some pictures from the fires on Kassandra. Bet ya can’t wait…