Hands full

So, last night I went to a courier's flat where I'm to stay until I find my own place. It's in Woolwich, which I discovered is in south east London, about a twenty five minute train ride from London Bridge or an 12 mile or so cycle.

He lives in a one-bed council flat ten minutes from the station, at the top of a very steep hill. He had been on a three-day pill and coke bender over the weekend, he said as he opened his third beer and rolled another spliff, and was feeling a little rough. He's 42 and hard-up. He doesn't have a lock for his bicycle so leaves it unlocked all over town, but it's such a bad bike he's hopeful even the most deranged crackhead would leave it alone, realising it's not worth a dime bag.

I'll give him some money for the time I'm staying with him, to cover the electricity and just out of gratitude, since it's better than being on the streets.

The toilet in his flat doesn't work. The flush is broken, and the council take time to fix it. To flush it, he said, I'd have to fill a nearby bucket with water and pour it into the bowl. That'd push all the waste through the U-bed. And there was no toilet paper. If I wanted to do a shit, he said, I'd have to wash my arse in the sink with my hands.

Well, I can't see myself doing that, and so effectively there's no toilet.

I'm sleeping on a mattress and duvet on the lounge floor. It's actually comfortable and I slept well. I didn't go to work today, deciding instead to spend the day looking for a flat. I gave the friend I'm entrusting with money another £150, making a total of £900. Then I came to the Gutshot to use the computers to "look for a flat", by which I mean "play poker". Playing $0.50/$1 and $1/$2 I lost £286, which was everything in my bank account and pocket. I always lose when I play during the day, because I'm in the wrong mood and my opponents are better. I'd intended to go into town and buy jeans and a towel - so much for that.

Someone recognised me from across the street when I was smoking outside. A smart New Yorker, glasses, skinny, tight-fitting band T-shirt, who'd been on my PhD course. We used to talk about poker, and he saw first-hand my descent into addiction. The first time in four years I'd seen him or anyone from my programme. He stopped in his step, looking to see if it was me. I got up, crossed the road and greeted him.

He and all the others completed their PhDs, and either had or were applying for academic posts. I pointed at the club and told him I was still in my world of vice, but that I was doing a little writing, and hoped one day to have the same fringe literary life I could have had if I hadn't dropped out. We promised to look each other up.

I've just been to look at a flat in Homerton which'd be sharing with four girls - two fashion designers, one who is training for the circus, and another I forgot. I met two of them, and tried not to appear weird. The rent's £360/month including bills and it was a good-sized room with polished mahogany floors and a high ceiling. I'd take it if offered.

I've replied to a half dozen more adverts, too. I think staying somewhere grotty will be good for me, giving me the motivation to try very hard to find a place of my own. Quickly.