Yes, I'm beginning to get a sneaky suspicion that I am cursed. Especially when it comes to finding new places to live. My first flat was something that resembled a velt-green basement, decorated by Norman Bates. It was also behind a gym and a curry shop - which meant that I had the endless mantra of 'lift those legs higher...burn those calories' to the constant smell of Chicken Tikka Masala. This, needless to say, was not a fitting combination for a girl trying to maintain a sexy physique. It was also plagued by a demonic cat, which left a nail in my beloved's hand when he was trying to feed the ugly bastard. The garden, albeit the size of a small hand towel, seemed to have a mind of its own and spawned numerous weeds that seemed to defy my tiny hand shovel. I'm almost certain, that it was the wild ivy growing up the side of the cottage that actually kept it together.
Anyhow, let's skip onto flat number two (to which I have dedicated a short novel). Flat number two was more accurately a cottage, not a flat. It was about 150yrs old and used to be, I was bemused to find, a milking cottage - where cows were placed to be milked. Yes, so if the place was haunted, it was haunted by disgruntled cow-ghosts with aching udders. Oh, and perhaps by the many spiders that they crushed with their careless hooves, since there were an awful lot of those around to. In fact, during my year in the cow-cottage, I almost began to accept the hairy little things, until I woke up one morning with one smiling at me on the pillow, about an inch from my nose. He had crossed a boundary and I could have sworn it was the same cheeky muppet that had hitched a ride in the pocket of my winter coat on my walk to the station one morning...needless to say 'Fred' as I lovingly named him, ended up as a rather ugly mess on the cover of the Autumn Vogue.
Flat number three was in good old Clapham Junction, which seemed like a good idea at the time. While access to transport was a doddle, the alcoholic George Michael obssessed man living above me made things more than a tad unpleasant. In fact I still have nightmares about waking up at four am in the morning to 'Like Jesus to a Child' - perhaps the most loathed George Michael song in the world. Now, for those of you reading this blog that actually like George Michael, I want you to know that there is something very, very wrong with you....especially if you liked him in WHAM...then you should quietly go stop breathing somewhere before someone finds out.
Well, that brings me to flat number four...and back to the title of this post. When I moved into my fab new pad, I did notice the smell of rotting fruit and the pleasant, but incessant smell of yes...could it be? More curry! So it seems that I was back to a similar set up as flat number one...only that flat number four was just plain funky, in both senses of the word. I fell in love with the deck balcony, the large kitchen and the wooden floors. The first few months passed blissfully, apart from the odd drug deal that takes place in my new hood, it's rather quiet and peaceful. There is of course the rather strange church with the red luminous cross but I've kinda got used to that.
Now comes the rather eerie part. The weird Australian part. Today I have a mid-afternoon breakfast / brunch with my beloved and discover that the Australian couple above us, who I thought had been making an awful lot of noise in the last week...had actually pulled a runner, owing 3 months rent or something. So...this was something of a predicament...since I had been hearing weird sounds the last couple of nights. Having a rather over-active imagination, akin to Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes, I tried to imagine what was making those strange noises upstairs. I have decided that somethings are better left uninvestigated - especially with luck like mine. If Satan is spawning demons up there, I'm not gonna interrupt him.
