'I can be guilty of romanticising London renting'

As the capital’s property market stabilises (a bit), like many in the grand heave of London folk scrabbling for a better patch of ground, I’m wondering about our young family’s next options and stressing over the way children tend to grow and take up more valuable square feet on the floor-plan.

But it has also made me reflect on my 25 years living in London, the first half of which, pre-family, I spent renting on the semi-squat scene in Camden.

I moved every six months, just long enough to fulfil a contract but too long to be able to forget the squalor I’d seen. At one stage, I recall moving to a slightly better place that was £350 a month. Quite a sum considering the salary of my first magazine job was £10,500 a year (at the time I was delighted to break the “£10k barrier”, what a high roller).

Later, I was working from home as a freelance writer (this was pre-pandemic when that meant I was basically unemployed) and spent my days killing cockroaches, trapping mice and ignoring mould. I remember on one occasion pulling back the sofa to hoover behind it, and finding a pile of feathers there. No bird. And we didn’t have a cat. I was baffled. And scared. Had my housemates taken a late night turn into Occultism? I pushed the sofa back and made another cup of tea.

I sometimes say I have London renter PTSD, in that I remain insecure about our family flat even now; antsy to move, unsettled. The idea of a ‘forever home’ makes me want to vomit.

But I think this may be tied up with a romanticism about being young and free back in the day, with squalor all part of the fun of staying on the move. However, the reality was pretty depressing. For me, medically so. Heaven knows how renters are coping right now, no doubt touring the same places I did, but at way higher prices and with a thousand other people trying to get in ahead of you.

Really my “PTSD” is a competitive London spirit that I find hard to shake. “What next? Where next? Why them, not me?”

In my efforts to do a bit of “adulting” this year, I want to appreciate where I’ve landed, not just see it as a pit stop in my individualistic ego race.

Community counts and the balance it can give to your mental health is crucial. Children can help bond you to one, and that’s certainly happened to me in my south London enclave. But what’s more important? An actual home. Something London authorities need to get better at providing for the people keeping the city alive.