The chequered hall

I moved to London in April 1996 and lived for a few months in a studio in Walthamstow. It was in a series of blocks built on old railway sidings: little overland trains rattled by at intervals and made the windows shake. The flat was okay but I had to lug my bike up and down a couple of flights of stairs. Having very little money, I often ate bananas from a stall in the market where the stock got progressively cheaper the nearer it was to going rotten. Spotty bananas, sickly sweet, and the costermongers shouting for trade with their smoked-out voices and stylised, elongated vowels. Very seldom went out at all, but just sat during non-working hours trying to write interesting sentences in note books and wondering if I should get an Olivetti word processor from the Granada hire shop for so much per week. There was a bit of philandering with an older woman, though it soon petered out as it was bound to. On what turned out to be her final visit, she left behind her make-up and harassed me by phone until I posted it on. Got very fit and lean and learned how to handle a skiff and row properly. Fleeting impressions from this standpoint of bicycling along Lea Bridge Rd; London brick and potholes on the highway; three-storey pubs; a Ford garage; fast-moving low cloud and an unaccustomed harshness and brightness to the light; a binbag of dirty clothes in the laundrette; a cheap haircut; okra from the Bengali supermarket. A time of melancholy - just wallowing in it, swilling around. Nothing else of note.

By November a change of scene was called for, and a bigger flat came up in Woolwich for an extra £30 a month. I loved the accommodation straight away (though never the town). There was a courtyard outside - I think the place had once been part of the artillery school, a stable block maybe - and the front door opened to reveal a hallway that ran the length of the flat and had a lovely black and white chequered tiled floor. Two thirds of the way down on the right was the door into the living room and kitchen. Opposite, a vestibule with doors for the bedroom and bathroom. It had central heating and endless hot water. Daydreaming in bathsuds soon became an inescapable part of the routine. Still is. Everything was freshly painted and the landlady, Kathy, supplied a new washing machine. I added a futon and a few bits, such as speakers for my Discman. Even bought a word processor and set out to write the last great London novel of the 20th century. The following spring, I spent most of a couple of days lying on the green carpet in the living room reading The Secret History and resolved never to write anything other than shopping lists.

On work days, after pushing my bike across the courtyard, I would emerge through an arch and catch a glimpse of the steam rising from the pyramid atop Canary Wharf tower. Wheel along on Hill Reach, through Charlton village, passing Blackheath rugby club and on to the Standard. Then pedal past the girls' school and on beside an uneven patch of ground with gorse bushes. I've learned recently that this spot is referred to as cowboy and Indian land: never was a better nickname thought up for a venue for childish games. I would cut through Greenwich Park, swoop down the hill and on to the one-way system, pass Cutty Sark and dismount for the descent by lift into the foot tunnel. Bicycling inside is forbidden but I did very often ride through. Exhilarating. Take the lift to Island Garden and wiggle across to East Ferry Rd. Would sometimes see Mrs Sew'n'Sew doing the fetch from Asda or Walter walking his gun dogs. He lived nearby in a grubby house where he buttered bread with a hatchet. His nature abhorred a vacuum cleaner.

I stayed in that flat for a year. It was big enough for my kids to come to visit, big enough for Nick to bring his guitar for a blues jam and sing-song, big enough for Rog and I to roar all night and sink a bottle of tequila as Labour swept to power. I think my television licence may have run out by then, but no one from a detector van ever came knocking. These were brilliant times.