See, I told you I wasn't gonna live in a box.

My house; a breakfast room, a kitchen, a freaky little cubbyroom hidden underneath the breakfast room that the owner of the house had built for her 13-year old son whom she lovingly calls 'her little sausage', my small bedroom and my small empty studio. (I'm still very patiently waiting for my flippin boxes to be released from the sodding Rotterdamn Harbour.) There are 3 other rooms in this house and they're yet to be occupied by tenants. My agency had this funny idea that the rooms should be let for £130 per week, plus bills. Hmmmyeah uhuh. Like that's ever going to happen with the Credit Crunch slowly but surely taking it's toll. The kind of people the agency is aiming for cannot be arsed living in this part of town anyway. If it wasn't for the deal I made with the owner of the house I wouldn't be living here, not for that kind of money anyway. I live in Peckham Rye, a pretty ghettoass neighborhood (and a place everybody seems to dislike) in South East London. I really do love living in this part of London, but that's another story. This house is the exception to the rule tho; it's hidden behind two gates, by a Georgian semi-green courtyard with palmtrees and a picknick table where no-one's supposed to throw parties as several gnomes were bashed last year. Oh, the audacity.