The saying goes, ‘When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life’. I’m sorry, Samuel Johnson, but London is bloody tiring. Don’t make me feel bad about my work-tube-bed-repeat lifestyle. I’m exhausted, I’m broke, and I spent the whole weekend cleaning mould from the walls of my tiny, extortionately priced flat.
I was lucky when I first moved to London. I knew a guy who knew a guy who had a room to sub-let for a couple of months in Waterloo. I managed to skip all those late nights desperately trawling through pages and pages of single-bed closets for £600 a month on SpareRoom, and found myself with a double bed in Zone 1 at a price low enough that I could afford an after-work pint or three on a regular basis.