Waves in the loo!

PROPERTY 4

There is a reason why I'm running through my property history to date and that is to show you where I'm coming from and why my current search is accompanied by so many tears, tantrums, self-beatings and recriminations. It's a case of riches to rags... or maybe bricks to sticks. But first, let's move on to purchase number three.

Nassington Road, in South End Green, NW3 sounds posh, but in 1987 it was full of interesting, arty types. I counted a jazz keyboard player and two pianists amongst my neighbours. I bought a tiny attic flat with an amazing view over the rooftops of London. I could see all the way to St Paul's and beyond. There was no outside space but I put in plans for a balcony. Some of the neighbours had them. The houses overlooked nothing but gardens, allotments and the railway line.

My application was turned down twice and I gave up. Now, one of the flat-owners further down the road has gained permission for a swimming pool, yet I wasn't allowed a small, unobtrusive balcony. Humph.

Being constructed from the roof space of the house, there wasn't much brick holding the flat together; it was mostly timber and roofing tiles. Every time a train rumbled past, everything shook. But worst was the train and trundled past weekly, late at night, carrying nuclear waste. It was heavy and consisted of countless coaches and the shakings and wobblings inside my flat were of earthquake proportions.

But there was worse to come. I was there on the night of the 1987 hurricane and it was one of the most terrifying nights of my life. The flat shook so hard, I thought it was going to fly off the top of the house and carry me with it. I heard a radio news broadcaster telling everyone to stay in their homes and then, first one by one and then street by street, area by area, from my lofty perch I watched the lights go out all over London as the power lines came down with the trees.

I went in the bathroom and the water in the loo had waves on it. I crouched at the foot of the stairs, terrified, convinced that the nuclear waste train had crashed and that this was no ordinary gale but a nuclear wind and we were all soon to be dead.

When daylight came, I looked out and saw scenes of devastation all around me. Trees sticking through windows and roofs, crushed cars. And silence. A dreadful silence. I knew there was no point in going to work as there would be no transport and so, ducking beneath and scrambling over, I made my way onto Hampstead Heath, where I was horrified at the huge number of venerable trees that were lying with roots exposed. There was something naked and obscene about it. White roots poking up like dead limbs. It was a day for talking to strangers and sharing stories. "Was anyone killed?" "Have you still got your roof/windows/car/shed?" "It's going to take weeks to clear this lot."

In fact, it took just days where I lived... Days of whining saws and lorries full of logs. The following spring, new trees were planted on the Heath to take the place of the flattened ones and early one April morning, around 6 am, as I went for a walk before work, I encountered sinister men with rifles. Brazenly, I marched up to one and asked what was going on, to be told it was a squirrel cull. Apparently, the furry beasts had been stuffing themselves with the new tree shoots.

I stayed a couple of years in that flat. I liked it, I got on well with the downstairs neighbour, I loved the view, but in the end the weekly nuclear earthquake got too much for me. It was time to move on and to try a different area.