In the first of a Rising East series, Elise Briggs opens a new window on the streets where we live.
I knew before I came here that I was in for a big surprise. In my old town – somewhere small on the South Coast – you’re lucky to see one bus an hour. So London’s social mobility was a really exciting prospect.
In my mind’s eye, London meant Central London, as previously visited on day excursions with school, or a weekend break with family. And Central London meant history-drenched buildings such as Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s, together with iconic red buses and the London Eye (the new kid on the block).
I knew I shouldn’t be looking at London through the eyes of an awestruck tourist (you’re going to be living there, I kept telling myself), but I couldn’t help thinking of the whole place as monumentally metropolitan.
Nothing prepared me for the shocking reality of life outside the centre. I admit I had delusions of grandeur (a chic lifestyle among fine buildings – I wish); instead I found myself in a neighbourhood inhabited by a very different set of delusions – the product of criminal minds fuelled by drink and drugs.
When, holding my belongings in a box, I walked down an alley stinking of urine, and stepped over a puddle of vomit outside my new front door – only then did I realise what I was in for. Why did I ever come to this place, I thought. And what would my mum say?
But that was a few months ago. Of course, I have learned to cope since then; although I still haven’t got used to the broken sleep.
My dainty room is situated just above Chick Chicken, apparently the busiest and most popular chicken shop in the whole borough of Lewisham, emitting smells of fried chicken and chips up through my floor boards – a constantly aromatic reminder of the shabby chic (emphasis on shabby) that I chose to move into.
Sleep is tragically impossible on Friday and Saturday nights, either because the local youth have wheeled a trolley outside the chicken shop – a trolley containing four foot speakers blasting old school garage; or because the local drunk is sat singing songs of woe with his can of K cider.
As if these weren’t loud enough, we also live opposite Venue (a venue called Venue, presumably to match the London monument called the Monument), which has been described to me as ‘four floors of whores.’
Surely not that bad, but its clientele certainly offers an alternative to late night TV. All through the night, perfectly framed by my bedroom window, there is a plentiful supply of coked-up, half-drunk morons who enjoy nothing more than yelling at each other and, eventually, brawling. It’s like a constant rendition of the Jeremy Kyle Show – with (police) blue lights instead of studio lamps.
Sometimes the loud crowd from Venue collides with the equally drunk old men who look like they’ve spent their whole lives at the bar of the New Cross Inn (coming down from the bar stools only when they fall off them). The lined, red faces of the older men look fit to burst whenever they are confronted with the younger generation of party animals; perhaps they see an unwelcome reflection of their younger selves.
Judging by their faces, the lives of both groups seem to be mapped out in terms of trials and tribulations, with violence as a kind of momentary release. No wonder there’s always a fight to start, a score to settle.
Coming to live in South East London has opened my eyes and made me determined never to become like the people I see from my bedroom window.
Whenever I do move on, however, I am going to miss the authentic, night time entertainment.