Seedling 30: The View from Canary Wharf
‘Please arrive to work one hour early for a one-to-one meeting - Mike’
My heart stopped for a minute. I was just rushing out to see the room in Canary Wharf when his text came in. What did it mean? Was I in trouble? Had I messed up, recently? I started paging through my mind, poring over the last couple weeks, looking for anything that could qualify as a misdemeanour or major offence in terms of Seedling code. Had I been late? Sloppy in restock? Were the wine lists not updated properly? Cellar a mess? Or - oh fuck - had he monitored my management clock-ins on the point-of-sales system?
That would be very, very bad.
I didn’t need the added stress of changing Tubes at Bank Station, that was for sure; and as the DLR rose out into the open air and Shadwell spread out around me, I started preparing stock answers for whatever Mike was likely to throw at me.
My ace strategic plan was mostly to apologise and act contrite for whatever was on deck.
That usually works, doesn’t it?
In the meantime, I had to figure out how to get to this building on Westferry Road. It was either a bus transfer from Westferry station or walk from Crossharbour. My Spanish mobile on the verge of death, I had more or less mapped it out online and printed a neighbourhood map. Tracing the walk from DLR to the address, the Crossharbour option had me walking over bridges and canals.
Definitely Crossharbour, then.
After a ten minute stroll through a very ‘1980s England does Amsterdam’ stretch of dull brick buildings and plank bridges, past empty storefronts, a Tanning Hut, and a Nando’s knockoff, I found myself in a quiet three block oasis of pre-War townhouses, the last remnants of what hadn’t been wiped out by the Luftwaffe. They looked a bit sad and dark, the modern jazzy-colored new-builds looming just behind them, mountain bikes on balconies and GoggleBox glowing in the background. The streets were empty and unnerving in this old stretch, really. But then I arrived back at the near side of the Thames. The lights of The City glimmered across the water, in the distance. I had the address in hand but it was hard to know which of the imperialistic, freestanding buildings was the one I was looking for. All was quiet as I gazed up the twenty story tower and realised this was the address from the online ad. Looked vaguely more Blade Runner than Billingsgate.
I was buzzed in and then passed a very, very empty reception desk that I had to assume hadn’t seen an attendant in at least fifteen years. From some of the community boards and manager notices, it was obvious this was still a council building, though a world away from my scabies infested party pad on the far end of SW. But it wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Then again nothing this year had been.
*
‘So, what do you do for work?’
The little Italian batted his lashes as he spoke, one leg swung daintily over the other. He was in a single room, just next to what would (theoretically)be mine. Next to him was the Spanish couple, two very tall men who had just celebrated five years hitched and looked like an advert for Urban Outfitters. Then just beyond the Spaniards was the view. The entire living room decked in floor-to-ceiling windows, opened to a balcony and an unobstructed view of central London from here, the eighteenth floor. Tower Bridge, The City, The Walkie-Talkie, The Cheese Grater, City Hall, The Shard, The London Eye, St. Paul’s Cathedral, Big Ben, Westminster - Battersea Power Station for fuck’s sake - it was mesmerising.
‘Oh shit’, I had gasped when I walked in. I hadn’t expected it. There weren’t any photos of this view in the online ad.
One of the Spaniards laughed.
‘Yeah, we don’t put that in the advert so people don’t choose the flat just for a view’.
I wasn’t sure whether he meant people would rent a flat for a view, or view a flat for a view. The latter seemed unlikely, but strangely - I sensed he meant the latter.
The view was the stupefying standout, but the flat itself wasn’t bad. It was in good shape, with modern ceramic floors and new appliances in the kitchen. The WC was separated from the shower room and that was something new for me. And, leading from the living room to the front door was a long hallway with the three bedrooms side by side; a master(the marrieds), a single(Italian), and mine. The master was huge and had the feel of an elegant country inn. The Italian’s was tidy and chic - though kinda in a university dorm sorta way. And then mine. Well, it was technically the same size as the Italian’s but the bed was unnecessarily wide and had one of those high bannister wooden frames that reminds one of a baby crib. The bed’s aesthetics aside, with the room being narrow it meant you had to get into bed shuffling sideways like a hermit crab. Still, at £710/month, bills included, it would probably come in equal or under the Stockwell room. And, every bedroom had that show-stopper vista, as well.
One extra large goldfish in one rather tiny bowl floated languidly beside me as I weighed my options. I had the distinct feeling the finned one was more decoration than housepet.
Sitting here, in this reality show style ‘roommate’ interview, the city spread out before me, and facing three apparently normal and open-minded youngish gays, I figured I’d end my room search here and now, before it had even begun. If I didn’t, it’d probably be gone in a day. But, even if it wasn’t, I just didn’t have the time to apartment shop. You couldn’t work in a London restaurant and realistically think you’d have that luxury. With the hours I was doing - and most being evenings and weekends when apartments are shown - there’s almost no time to view places. And I had had more than enough of the Geisha and the DJ and his friends - and his ‘friends’.
I couldn’t over think this.
‘Truth is, it all looks pretty good to me. I’ll take the room if you’ll have me’.
The little Italian clapped his hands together.
‘Just a couple quick questions,’ I continued. ‘This living room is beautiful and there’s not a hair out of place...’
‘I’m an interior designer,’ smiled the younger Spaniard with the handlebar moustache.
Of course you are…
‘Well, it’s beautiful, but I just want to feel if live here, that I’m part of the household. Like, if I had a few things I wanted to put out…’
‘Absolutely’, the other Spaniard chimed in, ‘you pay rent here, it your home, too’.
‘And what’s the fish’s name?’
‘Her name’s Madonna’. The Italian’s eyes twinkled.
Of course it is…
I had a lot of trouble imagining myself chatting to or feeding ‘Madonna’ on a daily basis.
‘Can I call her Madge?’