The Moving Times Of Caroline Proudly

Flat 6, Kelly Avenue

Without having to find my own accommodation for the previous three homes, I was very out of practice. The distant memory of how I had found Heath Road and Shield Street caused me to go out and buy the Evening Standard. My need to find somewhere very quickly meant that I was open to anything cheap and instantly available. After a couple of calls, I arranged a viewing at a place in Clapham South.

Gulping back tears, I took it on the spot. As if ending my relationship with James and having to move out wasn't stressful enough, that fact that I was going to have to live in a dive of a bed sit was almost too much for me. When the landlord kindly told me that he was sure that I would be very happy there, I couldn't do anything but nod slowly and force a smile. It seemed likely that it would be a while before I would be happy again, and that living there was not going to increase the speed of my recovery.

When I moved all my things into Kelly Avenue I was in floods of tears. I continued to cry during the unpacking and, when I had finished and looked at the result, I sobbed uncontrollably into my pillow. The next morning, I got ready for work in record speed so that I could get out of the place as fast as I possibly could. By lunchtime, I was already dreading the prospect of having to go back 'home'. When Olivier called, he quickly realised that I was distracted. Assuming that it was as a result of my broken relationship, he kindly but inappropriately suggested that I take the rest of the day off and go home. Assuring him that that would not be the solution, I decided to do all of the things I hated most in my job so that the rest of the day would drag on. Unfortunately, because the office was in Brixton, working late in the office was forbidden by HQ. Anything not completed before it was getting dark outside had to be done at home on my laptop or left undone. With no choice, I made my way slowly and regretfully home.

As I fumbled with my keys, trying to unlock my bedroom door, my neighbour came out of her room to introduce herself. As a result of convent school days, I was suddenly reduced to a blithering wreck. My mouth fell open and I stuttered a 'hello'. Lucia, or rather Sister Lucia was standing there 'all habited up' and was complete with a Bible in her hand. Suddenly the prospect of being in my bedsit, and quickly, was very desirable. Sister Lucia unfortunately didn't belong to a silent order and, worse than that, wanted to tell me all about the negative aspect of my bedsits last inhabitant. Most of the things that had disturbed her were just a result of the adjoining wall being thin, but that it would be helpful if I wore slippers because the sound of shoes on the wooden floor was particularly disturbing for her. On her part, if there was anything she did that disturbed me, I must tell her and she would, where possible, refrain. As I looked at the aged nun, I couldn't think that there were going to be many things that were going to be likely to disturb me. As if she had read my mind, she said, 'I do sing. You might hear me singing from time to time.' In an attempt to be a friendly neighbour, I stupidly asked what sort of things she sung. The response was, 'My dear child. I'm a nun. I sing hymns, of course. I'm a singing nun.' The amusement that I got from the fact that I lived next door to a singing nun made up for the regular sounds of the squeaky off-key hymns that I could hear through the wall.

The old flowery nylon curtains came down and were replaced by oatmeal cotton, a change around of the furniture and Kelly Avenue grew on me a bit. I realised that I could have finished up somewhere a lot worse. I missed Mount House's grand entrance and felt sick when my shoes stuck to Kelly Avenue's patchwork collage

of well-trodden hall carpeting. I didn't miss cleaning up after other people and I loved the fact that, alone, I could do exactly what I wanted or in fact nothing at all if that's what I wanted to do.

Kelly Avenue had been divided up into six bedsits but strangely, I hardly saw anyone. I never had to wait for the bathroom to be free and remarkably always found it immaculately clean. The Argentinian girl who lived next to the bathroom was apparently responsible for its décor. She deserved full marks for the repainting and investing in a shower curtain and, whilst the pictures and their frames were not to my taste, she had at least tried to make it feel a little human. The last occupant of my flat had been a Scandinavian with a patriotic hatred of unhygienic carpeting and so had ripped it up. If it hadn't been for those painted and varnished floorboards, I probably wouldn't have been able to accept the room in the first place. Her hard work hadn't stopped with the floor. She had also painted the walls in a warm yellow colour. Unfortunately, she had either run out of time, energy or money. The kitchenette was separated from the bedroom by a 5-inch-wide useless partition and consisted of a sink and portable hob. The fridge was too wide to fit into the narrow passage. There was nowhere to store a plate let alone a few bags of pasta. The discovery that a little cupboard thing would just stand on top of the fridge suddenly doubled up as a useful cupboard for food, pans and plates.