I wouldn’t consider myself precious, and as grateful as I was for my friend’s hospitality, sharing my heartbtreak on a behind-the-sofa bed (not to be confused with the more comfortable sofa-bed) with some overzealous mice with obvious rat aspirations had me waving goodbye to the end of my tether.
In truth, second to the Big Brother house, Brixton was the last place I would have ever considered living but I was down on my luck and couldn’t afford to be fussy. I found a room living with a couple of guys in their 40s and moved in the following week. The mice were obviously devastated and left me a selection of brown presents in my rucksack as a parting gift. Nothing says thanks like a bucket full of poison.
All I really wanted to do was lock myself away and max out on wound-licking, but I had to make an effort with my new roomies. Like a mushroom picking up a flavour they knew I was not in a great way and plied me with wine, cheesecake and roast dinners. They are such excellent cooks that they look on my microwave pizzas with the same disbelief a Victorian would have with an i-pod.
Properly fed and watered I felt strong enough to explore. It turned out Brixton is amazing and not scary at all. It’s just like Clapham has put on weight to be honest (and looks better for it).
My ideal Saturday now consists of a run in Brockwell Park, brunch at Rosie’s (café of the author of Spooning with Rosie) and an evening film at the Ritzy or supper at Hive (best garlic king prawns I have ever tasted).
I never feel the need to leave Brixton on a weekend and, where possible, I get people to visit me where I sell them on its many merits. Brixton has been an essential part of the healing process. Both the sense of community, plethora of entertainment options and the paternal actions of my new surrogate fathers has made it a very Happy New Year for JB.
Image by mentalsync courtesy of Flickr