Real Life

The share-house myth

Secret marmalade hoarder Pat McDermott recalls the good, the bad and the painful truths about couch surfing in London 40 years ago.
Couch surfing in London

The MOTH (Man of the House) and I met more than 40 years ago in London. Yet, right from the start, we weren’t really alone.

Like everybody else, we lived with flatmates and friends of flatmates and friends of friends of flatmates. We even lived with total strangers and their friends.

Our home was a shabby Earl’s Court share-house. Some people only stayed for a night or two, a few for a week or two, most for a few months. The diehards (also known as Australians) hung about for at least a year.

London was the centre of the world and we had so much fun. We pulled thousands of pints of warm beer and dished up Scotch Eggs and Lancashire Hotpot in pubs all over that wonderful city. Living in large groups and sharing expenses made the pound notes go further, but there were drawbacks.

Living was expensive and the flat was crowded. Flatmates and freeloaders alike stuck notes on the food they brought home. “Touch this steak and die,” said one friendly reminder in the fridge. I once locked a tiny jar of high-end marmalade in my suitcase to keep it safe until morning.

There was nowhere to sit. One and sometimes two people were asleep on every sofa. Get home late and one or two people were asleep in your bed! Those who wander the world on the cheap these days call it ‘couch surfing’, but believe me, boys and girls, it’s not as comfortable as it sounds.

On a cold, damp and not-so-lovely London evening, 12 of us sat huddled together around the one-bar electric fire in the draughty living room. The real estate agent had warned us that the only way we would get central heating was to put the radiator in the middle of the room.

The MOTH and I looked at the crowd around us, tried to remember who was who and finally decided it was about time to go home and grow up.

The day we left, we rose at 4am, but it didn’t help. The hot water was already gone. I’m not sure our flatmates, our flatmates’ friends or the two strangers in the kitchen even noticed we were leaving. All eyes were on our empty beds.

A year later, in Sydney and newly wed, we made friends with a big bank that agreed to give us a small mortgage and we bought our first home. It was a tiny terrace which the neighbours said had once belonged to a family of elves. Yet size didn’t matter because we were going to live in it all by ourselves.

As we stepped across the threshold, the dog from next door followed us in. It was love at first sight, at least on his part. He was, uncannily, like our London flatmates. He ate all the leftover food, sat squarely in front of the fire and slept on our bed every night.

Over the next 12 years, he followed us to two more houses, graciously accepting the arrival of our five children and a cat called Buddha. I thought the MOTH and I were never going to live alone because once the kids arrived, so did their friends. We bought trundle beds and sleeping bags and, in one terrible rush of blood to the head, a huge blue ‘L-shaped’ sofa. We might just as well have hung a ‘Vacancy’ sign from the letterbox. We were running an Airbnb lodging and not making any money.

So, last year, on a trip to New York to see Ruff Red, we decided to learn from the professionals. We rented a studio apartment in the East Village with exposed brick, a painting of a nude woman on the wall, an axe by the fireplace and a giant steer’s head over the stove.

The steer’s head was fake and the mattress was comfortable, so we stayed. The place was warm, quiet and safe, and came with friendly neighbours, including the owner’s ‘hippie’ mum, who was busy growing veges on the roof. At least, I think that’s what she was doing.

We loved it and unless you count two curious squirrels on the balcony, at last we were all alone.

In the city that never sleeps. Yet we certainly did.

Words by Pat McDermott

Illustration by Maude Guesne at Illustrationroom

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