People have asked to see the place where I've settled for now. It's modest and a bit wonky but it's so me and the few who've been up here at the top of the pub agree. This is the bedsit within a flat where I live; Chez Moi and to some extent, mi casa su casa:
This is the living room, with one or two books, CDs and DVDs lining the shelves and stacked on the floor. My comfy leather sofa and the hi-fi separates made the journey down safely. On the wall there is the signed copy of Diamond Dogs by David Bowie. Just out of shot is Paul Auster's autograph, framed on the wall.
The view from the living room into the bedroom / office. Trevor the Triffid is being nursed back to health.
The view from where I mainly sit. Those black boxes beneath the TV are the famous kit: such warmth and clarity of sound. The speaker to the left of the shot is one of the Mordaunt Shorts, which cost three hundred quid each. If you ever hear them, you know why they cost that much.
The writing desk. Note the clock, top centre: a clock mechanism in a vinyl LP - David Bowie - made by yours truly.
Where I recline. Home sweet home; for now. I'm used to insecurity and lack of permanence; such is the lot of someone who has to move around. It's better than the squat though, much better than the bunker and infinitely preferable to living on the street. So this is home, for now.
This is the living room, with one or two books, CDs and DVDs lining the shelves and stacked on the floor. My comfy leather sofa and the hi-fi separates made the journey down safely. On the wall there is the signed copy of Diamond Dogs by David Bowie. Just out of shot is Paul Auster's autograph, framed on the wall.
The view from the living room into the bedroom / office. Trevor the Triffid is being nursed back to health.
The view from where I mainly sit. Those black boxes beneath the TV are the famous kit: such warmth and clarity of sound. The speaker to the left of the shot is one of the Mordaunt Shorts, which cost three hundred quid each. If you ever hear them, you know why they cost that much.
The writing desk. Note the clock, top centre: a clock mechanism in a vinyl LP - David Bowie - made by yours truly.
Where I recline. Home sweet home; for now. I'm used to insecurity and lack of permanence; such is the lot of someone who has to move around. It's better than the squat though, much better than the bunker and infinitely preferable to living on the street. So this is home, for now.
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