Sweet Water Lake

The sweet water lake is a jungle lake, fed from a fresh spring, jungle drainage and thermal bubbles from the muddy bottom. It’s a sweet combination and it’s where I go for my new happy hour.
I wake at first light in anticipation of it. The new day all to myself, a coolness that won’t last past sunrise; the rays of which are evident above the jungle peak, fanned out like vapour fingers. The peace of a personal dawn. If everyone knew what they were missing there would be no peace. It’s the only time I leave the sound of the breaking wakes behind, apart from when they break over me and my hearing is nothing but an audio enema. I hear them all day and all night, I'm never further that street market from the sound. Buy my bread and back along the beach to my cliff side dwelling, a carefully projected gooey chocolate milk spit from the sea.
The lake is smooth from a still melting night and a thin layer of mist drifts on the surface, as if put there for effect.

The water is the same temperature as my bed sheet, as the air on the path as my body, there is no shock from the transition. What takes my breath away and gets my adrenalin racing is the unknown. I slip silently into the water; it’s like a jungle trance, a calling. I'm a sacrifice; I immerse myself in the sensation, with a single trace of my footprints in the mud,

I leave the shore into the unknown.
The jungle isn’t welcoming, it’s just there if you dare and I do, I gently breast stroke into it. My tiny bow wave makes lava lamp reflections of the sunrise sky.

The wafts of reflected pink cloud ripple out of reach and then out of view into misty obscurity.
It’s tranquil but it’s not silent; jungle sounds; it’s a sound effect tape; mixed with the mist it’s so realistic. As if I really am swimming in a sweet lake in a moist tropical forest. I can’t even see the porcelain blue swimming pool tiles; the car park is carefully hidden by green rocky cliffs that rise out the water. The beach is the only entrance, no changing room just a mud foot bath as I step into the dark clear wonder. Smooth as melted chocolate my movement makes Mars bar ripples
The sounds of jungle birds around me. Whoop, whooper with cheese, whooper with cheese, and screech standard, standard and whistle, like a boiling kettle.


The only colour is green, banana leaves and palms, ferns and tropical fauna. The water is still and warm, sweet and natural. You can’t get relaxation like this from a chlorine scented fountain, can’t get this exaltation from potted plants.
Viewed from an eye lid above the water level, it’s so real its so nature. It’s all the stimulation I’d ever need, all the entertainment. This isn’t simulation its reality. Nature does it so well; better than a Vegas themed environment, dry ice and projected clouds on blue ceilings. It doesn’t have opening and closing times, I'm here before hours. No rules no regulations no instructions, no warning, no information, what the hell am I swimming in? What am I swimming with? Are they friendly? Are they hungry?

I lay on my back and gently kick my feet, stealth movement as the sky loses its colourless stand-by veil, the sun is turning it blue and an eagle drifts over on the first thermals of the day, let’s not over do it.

it’s time for someone else to play.
It occurs to me this is prime territory for a water snake to glide across the surface and I would have nowhere to go. It freaks me out and with the exhilaration the enjoyment has just gone up a notch. I put down my feet on the muddy bottom where the water is thermally warmer; at nipple depth I can see the bottom and I'm standing on rocks, if I’d bothered to look I would have seen what bit my toe and I wouldn’t have yelled out loud. It made me jump, it didn’t hurt. My senses were already on alert after my water snake thoughts.

I was embarrassed; I broke the calmness with my fear. Thankfully no one came; I hope no one heard, I hope no one saw, what a breathtaking way to start the day. Swimming into the jungle, all by myself. A dawn not to be missed. Do something every day that scares you. It was that or eat the pork. I'm free to spend the rest of the day in the comfort and security of the hammock.

Arambollocks

The long time residents, the long time relaxed. Not inspired but expired. The problem with doing nothing, all day every day, month in month out, is that it leaves little in the way of conversation to be had.
This isn’t a tourist resort of holidaying westerners; it’s a village and with it comes village mentality. The territorial rights of the long established leather tanned and effected foreigners, rights that appear to not even extended to the native Indians; who, indecently, appear to be far more friendly, welcoming and humorous people. However there is an equal distain, reverse snobbery reserved for the obvious 2 week holidayer. If you’re too white you’re a tourist, too Indian and you are an intruder. This is my observation based purely on the negative because raised voices attract my attention and no response to a greeting or smile gets me riled.


I’ve written and re written read and re read, I would tell the other side but I can’t break on through to it, the inner sanctum seems impenetrable.
It’s not across the board, whilst some deadened eyes never make contact; other faces become familiar, because we will inevitable keep crossing on a single path along the cliff. The beam and warmth from a smile of recognition from the unassuming and unbothered will put a bounce in my step.


That mute communication has extended far beyond our differences and similarities, beyond our simple plans for today and the evening that we spent. If something relevant and significant should occur, I like to think it may well be voiced but until then it’s the most comfortable of silences.
The white Russians mix with Bombay weekenders on a speechless beach, drifting across the sand at a speed their time imposes. They are the only actual travellers around here, this isn’t travelling, its home from home for the transients. They know how things work here, they know because they made things work this way. As with any cross section there are the contributors and the complainers, the integrators, the ignorant and me, the intrigued.
If there is a rite of passage to the depth that is portrayed, I’m not finding the key to it and inevitable it’s only the shallow that you meet on the surface. And that is where my cynicism is bread from, confirmed with, and remains.
After several encounters the company I chose to keep is my own. It’s easy I just think of all the boring, uncomfortable, superficial and mismatched social situations I have had to endure and then relax in my own thoughts. When I overhear a conversation I can contribute to, learn from and enter into with a single inhalation of breath, my voice returns, ‘excuse me I could help but overhear...’
With my toes in the sand, stars overhead and food on the table it is nearly idyllic, but for the company I was introduced to.


The mental monotony of a still born monologue.
The going rates for labour and services are discussed regularly and disgust is voiced at the over generous idiots, who pay above the tariff and ruin it for the rest, by rocking the status quo of the local rates. Nothing has a price tag in India, you pay what it is worth to you, experience may discover the bottom line but it doesn’t make it the rule.
It’s like they are playing at being a resident, but integrating little with the native community. Less to say that the preverbal old boys in the local pub. You can’t swap travel stories if you don't go anywhere, you can’t moan about work if you don't do any, and can’t talk TV if you don't watch and whether is a non starter.
‘Sunny today’
‘Yes’
‘Supposed to be the same tomorrow’
‘Really?’
‘And hot too’
‘Oh hot. Right’
This means the local paper is thoroughly scanned and the daily state of things is thoroughly discussed at meal times. The crime, corruption, bureaucracy and committee mismanagement. The paper prints it, the temporary locals debate it and the circle of conversation revolves around it. It’s a global practice the only thing that changes is the size of the village. The New York Times, The News of the World, It’s a standard thing.
These debates are punctuated with the odd local word to truly keep in touch with the country they inhabit. Charis, its weights, quantities, qualities and of course market price, actual value and source are the basic ABC essentials. Along with knowing your Hindi Gods, combining the two and thanking the appropriate one before sucking down a chillum full of Manali Cream is the height of social etiquette.
Knowing that Bombay is called Mumbai is quite important but not knowing that it isn’t the capital is of no consequence it would appear.
The security of a sprung loaded locking mechanism padlock is compared to, and decided superior to the key locked variety. Despite the latter having the advantage of not being able to lock yourself out of you room. It’s not the most stimulating of debates. Squire? Master? Who can you Count on? Unlike King George 3rd, I don't have a fondness for locks.
It’s like armchair travel, there is nothing adventurous about it, there appears to be one-upmanship of time stayed combined with a tally of annual visits, OK you win, so where’s your prize? I’ve stayed in this country, state, village, this room before. I've met some of these people before; I continue not to meet the others. The problem, apart from a massive generalization on my part, founded from the same dead end conversations with dead beats; is it’s so much easier to be cynical and scathing than it is to be interested and thrilled, it’s more entertaining too. I keep my mouth shut and my mind on record and occasionally chip in with a provocative comment to keep the bollocks rolling forth. It stops me from screaming.
An embryonic beginning never grows beyond small talk. The list of topics shorter than my attention span. The length at which they are discussed longer than my life expectancy.
Amongst the most hypocritical topics, is the discussion of diet and health? At last I think, a subject matter with potential but wait. The precise time of day to eat fruit so the body can process it, so the acids of said fruit don't clash with the body’s natural ability to break down a food that is consumed later in the day.
‘What?’
How watermelon will conflict with pineapple in the same fruit salad.
‘Really?’ Stay on record, keep it mute. The benefits of tofu are discussed in relation to nutrition as opposed to an alternative to polystyrene when shipping fragile goods; and of course the inevitable warnings and dangers all things tasty.
‘The pigs eat shit, don't eat pork.’ I know but I’d rather eat it than talk it, I’d give pearls to a sow for a bacon sandwich.
It’s a ridicules discussion, you are what you eat, bland and uninteresting. The ritual of preparation, the type, the time and the consumption are all discussed in relation to the benefits of health; they are spoken with the monotone enthusiasm of the announcement of the late arrival of the 5.15 from Norwich.
All this health and nutritional information would have far more credibility if not voiced, whilst another long folded paper retaining a bed of tobacco is sprinkled with another portion of charis to enhance the consistency of the tripe being spouted. This is the substance that fails to give conviction to their argument. The health benefits of tobacco are over looked like a geographical capital faux pas.
Speaking of bodies like temples with heads that are refuge tips. They’re not exactly yogis, their bodies don’t back up there beliefs any better than their words. I agree it’s important to have perspective on your food; I watch mine from a distance, as the fishing boats catch my dinner whilst I eat my breakfast, mixed fruit muesli with watermelon and pineapple, from a sea front restaurant. I am what I eat, I'm so bad.

There is a fresh water spring a short walk into the jungle, screeching unseen birds and monkeys echo through the palms strewn with creepers, I keep my eyes on the undergrowth of bright red flowers and shiny well trodden rocks, fauna unfamiliar to me brushes my sweat beads away. Down to the pools where the local workers bathe and articulate good morning with tooth brush distortion. They smile and make way for me and my plastic water bottle and I struggle across the stepping stones.



But come the afternoon, when the lazy bathe there bloated western bodies, hostility breaks through the jungle sounds if a local encroaches. Fresh water wars, it was always a prophecy, this would be the beginning. I cringe at the behaviour of this pond life. The natives share it but the foreigner’s wont.
On me bike, where’s me bike? I miss me bike. There was an ease and luxury on the bike that I was not aware of until I left without it. I didn’t realize it but its so slap me round my helmet, splat on my visor obvious. On the bike, on the road; I see it all pass but I don't hear what I don't want to. Right there between my legs is a common interest. The girls admire it, guys envy it and anybody who has an interest will come and talk to me about it. It’s the common ground I ride on; it saves time not just in traffic but in forming acquaintances too. I knew as soon as I saw another bike it was the source of conversation, instantly interesting, often useful, occasionally amusing and always genuine.
The sun, sea and sand may expose the body, tattoos and scars are on display but I can see far deeper into a person as first glance when they are covered by Gore-Tex textile and carbon-fibre armour. I've got a pretty good idea of what’s inside by all the clues outside. The type of bike and condition it is in, the amount of luggage, the nationality of the plate and the distance it is from home and the time it took to get here. It tells me so much more then the exposed flesh, budgie smuggler swimming trunks and dental floss bikinis.
The bandage is the uniform of the bike rider here, the sarong wearing, Enfield riding too cool for protection, too fast for the conditions, doesn’t get my envy or my sympathy. Riding with the responsibility of a used needle. A bandage of bad karma. Self inflicted, not an accident, an inevitability.
My bike was my peacock feathers, my conversation piece. I couldn’t blend in if I wanted to. I'm not sure I blend in here, but under tanned and over exposed without my helmet I just can’t integrate like I can at a Swedish rock festival or speed awareness course. I've lost my element, I'm out of it.

This is an alternative to living in a van. When I lay insomnia in my hammock as an elongated square of stars moves across the sky into the shape of a cross I realize it’s the time I was killing and the space I was dying for that brought me here. It comes with a level of relaxation that only the shedding of possessions will generate. You don't get that with your 2 wheels of concern and calculation. Or with your 4 wheels of accommodation. I wouldn't get it either if I were to step out into the real India. This is ‘India lite’ being trapped here is an easy sentence.
I’m isolated between sea and cliffs a mile from the nearest road and vehicle, an enticing smell and impulse away from a restaurant.
People come here for many reasons. Spiritual, debouched, dehumanization, self improvement, be it a greater understanding or to become a few shades darker. But I can’t ignore the underlying emphasis that is projected of who belongs and who doesn’t.
I’ll run out of time before I'm run out of town, and will be long gone before I belong. It will take more time than I can afford before I tick with the old timers.
From my hammock I watch every sunset


and am aware of when the moon will appear and how much of it. It’s a treat; it’s my retreat, a wonderful isolation so good for reflections, and plans. The distance come and direction heading. How could I appreciate this tranquillity if I hadn’t heard the bollocks? And now I understand, even the hypocrites have their use.
Integration without conflict seems to be the best hope there is here. Perhaps an all encompassing community would be superficial anyway. Don't fuck with me chi and I won’t mess with your shit. We will pass on the path but we won’t meet on the beach.

My reality TV

It’s a 3 meter flat screen TV. I watch it from my couch or lying in my hammock. I am so close and it is so large I have to turn my head to see from one side to the other. Sometimes I rest my feet on the frame; it puts me in the picture.
I can’t control the volume or brightness but light dims at night automatically. There is only one channel. I can’t turn it off and even when I'm not watching it plays. The picture is primarily of the sea, it’s my ocean colour scene and it’s in 3D. It is high definition and has surround sound. The thunderous waves break over rocks and crash through a sub woofer; sea birds are heard through the tweeters in perfect stereo as they fly across the screen.
Old black and white TV’s would have a tiny white dot centre-screen when you turned them off at night. This has hundreds of sparkling dots like pin holes in a black velvet curtain, the light piercing through the darkened nocturnal display. The volume gets so loud with the high tide, waves break at me feet. Like white noise it’s a constant yet inconsistent sound, it never stops it just fades in and out.
If I had a door, if I had a visitor, if they were to knock, I wouldn’t hear.
I spend a lot of time in front of it. The more I watch it the more I notice the subtle changes. The sunlight’s strobe reflection off the uneven water, the shy fishing boats that hide on the hazy horizon, and the sun setting further to the north at the end of every slightly longer day.



Palm covered cliffs rise to the right of the screen it’s where the sun must hide until the morning. Bamboo huts are perched on stilts beside a narrow dusty path. The open air restaurant has fewer customers and the parade of tanned and dreadlocked wanders has gaps that get bigger and last longer. The end of season finale has begun, it a vibe that is broadcast, I can feel it. My TV tan is in its earliest stage. I am the fresh spring contrast to the autumnal browns I see, reversed from a winter sun. They are leaving the heat for cooler greener grass in the Himalayan foothills, leaving me the remote solitude I control.
I will continue to watch channel Goa. I've seen it before, it’s like Dave but with updates installed, Indians didn’t have mobile phones or show open displays of affection last time I watched. Now there are Red Indian lifeguards, 3rd world Baywatch, Hindi young dudes on jet skies fly past, as if projected by a line of white surf.
It’s the sun screen from my balcony. And it’s a screen I’ll savour until I watch the train station that takes me to the hill stations.

Why I don't live in London

‘Where are you going to go?’ where are you going to go? That's what everyone kept asking me, my friends my neighbours, my tenant and my letting agent. And the answer was always the same. ‘I don’t know.’
I didn’t know, I hadn’t made any plans at all. I’ve been thinking I might want to live in London, but I can’t view properties from here. I will wait until I am free of the house, take the tools out of my van and then drive up there; I can sleep in the back if I need to.
‘You’re the most interesting person in the village... ever’ said my postman.
It’s a curse you know. It’s not a competition. I don’t try and be interesting. As soon as I'm on the road, any road, I'm just your average transient seeker. It’s when I'm a permanent resident at the side of the road in my house, that's when my ever present wanderlust, my lack of ties, plan, and commitment makes him think I’m ‘the most interesting person in the village’ so it’s time to go and find an interest.
I had a fantasy, a tall order it would appear. I wanted to try living in a house share in London. It would, I thought provide me with not just accommodation but a social life and inspiration too. I would write during the day, drink wine around the communal dining table at night whilst chatting with inspired and creative people, who weren’t competing to be interesting, didn’t even know they were, but whose interests and conversation extended beyond mortgage payments and kids. Loose one and you’re liberated; loose the other and you’re devastated.
Simple I thought. So many of the ads on the find a room web sites implied my potential new abode would provide a complete new life. Accommodation, friends and social life like a family, they even posted photos of them all holding up wine glasses, huggy on the couch, ‘Cheers, come live with us’
I soon found that just like dating sites, people lie. In my honest manner I assume everyone is of the same thinking but they are not. Why tell the truth, when you can over hype, misinform and generally portray a scenario where, if 20% of the house use the cooker at the same time its sounds like dinner on Walton’s Mountain.
Communal living seemed to mean sharing a bathroom. Kitchens didn’t have room for more than 2 people at one time let alone a dining table. If they did it was a territorial thing; and being last lodger in, I’d be lucky to have a work surface to lean against whilst eating my bowl of gruel. ‘Please could I have some more, space?’
The lounges were simply bedroom number 4, 5 or 6. High demand, high rent, high density. Why have a room with a TV and a couch when you can have another £150 rent a week coming in. It appeared that the inhabitants found out more about each other than they had ever know in the short time it took me to see the place and ask a few questions about home life.
On top of that, just to get my foot in the door I had to sell myself. ‘I’ll have you know I was the most interesting person where I come from’, why wouldn’t they want me here, the only question is why I would want to be’ and every time the answer was I wouldn’t.
Its soul destroying, it’s disheartening, its illusion shattering. Holding all my hopes on the ad that offered everything I envisioned, not even bothering to schedule any more viewings. Then as soon as the front door opened I knew that untying my shoe laces was wasted time and energy. As I expanded my budget, criteria and the perimeters of my chosen location. The disappointment increased proportionately.
It started with a walk up some piss stinking concrete stairs to the 3rd floor of a housing block where windows and doors had iron bars across them. Hardly a good first impression, the entrance hall was the largest space there was. My first realization that every room had a bed in it, but the selling point was one girl had a TV and sometimes you could sit on her bed and watch it.
The search continued with a visit to a house that ‘Daddy has bought for me’ he lives across the road ‘he would check your references; I don't understand that kind of thing.’
I'm offered red wine, to accompany my tour, I though I’d come to see a room not attend an exhibition launch. The girl likes to play piano during the day.
‘I play mainly classical’ she tells me. I visualize myself writing as ‘November Rain drifts through the house, oh wait, you said classical. A hooray Henry is the other flat mate who’s clearly never done a useful days work in his life. I am sat down to be interviewed. Books clubs are suggested, more viewers join us and another tetra pack of red is opened. University balls are discussed and gap year travels, ‘More wine? Did you hear that recital on Radio 3?’
‘I sometimes half listen to 6 music, does that count?’
‘When did you graduate university?’
‘I didn’t I went straight into the real world and have lived there and supported myself ever since.’
They are half my age, 4 times my education, full of knowledge and no wisdom on how to apply it. I leave them in their mythical world of merlot and Mozart and go back to the hard road.

I had stored the contents of my partially furnished 3 bedroom house into the garage, before my tenant and her 2 children moved in. Couch, futon, and computer desk were all stuffed in next to a dismantled wardrobe and boxes of cloths, kitchenware and toiletries. And despite the stacked chaos kitchen chairs and the leaning tower of white goods, the garage still had more room than in most of the ‘double room’s I looked at.


I couldn’t live in the garage I had made the mistake of telling my tenant how I had rented my last house out to students and returning from a trip too early I have lived in my garage until they vacated. She would be on her guard; I had just blown that option.
When I lived in the house I had only utilized half of it. The tiny bedroom had just about enough room for a bed. I only used one ring of my hob. I spent my days between the lap top and wondering round the garden; so a single room with a nearby park seemed like a perfectly adequate substitute. How compact my life has become, the logistically unfriendly vinyl, replaced by cardboard box friendly CD’s, upgraded and downsized to Mp3's, now I don’t even need my iPod and dock. It’s all there with my other documents and communication equipment in one lap top and an external hard drive so I don’t lose it all again.
A table by a window and bed was all I required. A wash now and again and a heated meal once a day. Not too much to ask for was it? No it wasn’t, but my basic needs became a preference which mutated into a strict criteria. How could I have my prolonged and relaxing Friday night bath when the only toilet in the house share was in the same room? Lots of bath bubble to hide my modesty? And clearly food shopping would be a daily occurrence with such a tiny fridge, and a freezer compartment where I could store my 3 allotted ice cubes.
Out of the windows of the bedrooms I viewed, was not the bustling cosmopolitan street I had envisioned, nor the view of a landmark skyline. Not even the tree lined Suburban Avenue of pavement parked cars. But a concrete square ‘ideal for barbeques’ and a raised brick oblong containing weedy soil where ‘we want to start growing out own vegetables’
‘In there? Really?’ It’s no more than a permanent flower pot.
The London dwellers idea of space was very different to my own. I had liked the idea of having my own oyster card, knowing what carriage of the tube to get in so the doors opened opposite the exit of my chosen station. Jogging round the park with my earphones in and buying my veg for the local greengrocer. A reality I managed after only a few days in Seoul, Hong Kong, even Ullan Baatar, well without the jogging and underground bit. It’s that urban hunter gatherer instinct that inevitably kicks in. Strange how a low budget hotel room is so easy to find and quick to satisfy but the search for a house share is so fruitless.
I applied to be number 7 in a kind of commune house. The room was tiny but when one someone moves out everyone upgrades and up sizes. I liked the vibe, I liked the 4 people I met, and I liked the house. I made a good first impression ‘I'm living in my van’ was an experience they could all relate to. I followed it up with a huge faux pas by saying I had eaten that morning at McDonalds, when the truth was I had used there a car park, toilet and got a coffee there. I think I could have really got on well there; there was even a place to store my bike undercover. I was already making the best of my bedroom in my head, interior design of a 6’x 8’ room.
‘It’s ok to keep your wardrobe on the landing’
‘Wardrobe? I have stackable plastic boxes, I've lived out of panniers and expanded to a van, this is all the room I need’
They still had other people to see, ‘we’ll let me know.’
Down the road was another house with a massive room but sharing with a very strange woman. The interview didn’t go well. We were poles apart, I have some other places to see, ‘I’ll let you know’
I spend my days, usually in a supermarket car park, handy for toilets and supplies, surfing with my dongle hanging from my sun visor. Copy paste my introduction with a little personalized edit, and if an ad comes up that really sounds like it is calling me, I call them and arrange a viewing.
‘I can come now?’ what I mean is, can I move in now. I can’t lie; I will be around a lot. I ‘work from home’ that's a deal breaker from the off, despite the fact my rent money is guaranteed, as guaranteed as my rent money. The rent income for a 3 bed roomed detached house and garden but with no access to the garage, just about covers the price of a single room plus utilities an hours drive way. But if I wanted to save money I wouldn’t be looking for a place in one of the world’s most expensive cities. I’d be living in a van. Which I am, could be worse. From my little distant corner of the supermarket car park I become aware it’s the instinctive corner of choice for those of us whose only use for as trolley is when we don't have out accommodating vehicles anymore. The windows of these cars, outcast from prime shopper parking positions; are obscured by the tears of condensation from the hopeless breath of their permanent inhabitants. Once again my abode is palatial compared to London accommodation. Thermarest and a duvet, camping stove and a bicycle, shelving and lighting, carpeted and self contained. With a window and a bathroom it would meet my needs. And when I look out the windscreen at Tesco’s and toilets it virtually does.
When the room sites have nothing new on offer I look at camper vans on eBay, but I did that last year, I want to be a Londoner this spring. Well I did, no wonder so many people end up homeless in this city, I can see how it happens.
Small rooms, small houses, big rent, big disappointment.
There were so many last straws before I bailed out.

I prematurely ended a debouched weekend in the country to drive 2 hours to see a room that, although adequate in size and location, was shown to me by a grumpy American girl who was vetting the viewers on behalf of the absent live in landlady. She had been given more power than she disserved and her own agenda was put before the interests of the household. I’d gotten on well with the landlady when we spoke on the phone. This girl wouldn’t give me 10 minutes of her time which I thought was very selfish considering the distance I had come. It was unfair and I wanted to protest but why would I protest for the right to share a house with such an egocentric woman.
It’s not a good way to spend a Sunday night, to start a second week of viewings, sitting in the van in a McDonald’s car park. A new room came up on the site. ‘Mature housemates’ it said, I call immediately and push slightly for a viewing tonight the lady agrees. It’s looking good, just off of a busy street, by Finsbury Park, 4 story Victorian house, big room, but only the darkness of somebody else’s unkempt garden outside the window. The share was with 3 others the live in landlady, a Brazilian girl and an English guy who also worked from home. He had a complexion that said he never left it. The only fresh air he got was when he smoked out of his open window. I had a cup of tea with the landlady. I couldn’t help but feel the lounge/ diner/ kitchen was very much her territory although she insisted communal and equality was the vibe and the rule. Whilst I spoke my spiel and sold myself to the room; the scraping, clomping and banging from above was grating my teeth. It was the room of the Brazilian who would be vacating it, to move above me. I couldn’t put up with that wooden floor stomp; I would be up those stairs to tear her off a strip. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt; perhaps she is moving her stuff now.
It was defiantly one of the better places I had seen. It would mean stretching my budget to the point of noodle dinners.

Sleeping in the back of a windowless van means opening the doors into the unknown, when bursting for the obligatory night time piss. Torn between parking under the security of a camera in an industrial estate or the privacy of waste ground where the bad omen of burnt out cars are scattered like random tombstones.
Too early for one particular evening viewing, I sat in the car park of a retail park. Under the bright lights of a Comet, looking for hope on the laptop screen. I felt the van rock. My truck driver instinct kicked in. That rock when parked on a loading bay meant unloading was about to begin, but I was in a parking bay. I grabbed my bar of scaffold I keep in the door pocket to keep road rage at bay; I go to the back doors and there is some kid trying to get in. He takes off fast, like his well practiced trade has taught him. Wanting the thrill of the chase as much as the contents of the van.
Back in the cab, I’m glad the back doors were locked when I consider the last essentials of my compact life are in there. The little fucker and his friends are now throwing stones at the van. What can I do? Give chase so his cohorts can break into my vacated vehicle? I have no choice but to drive off. I'm taunted by the chav urchin as he makes his primal monkey victory gestures from the safety of the verge, there being no trees to complete his devolution. I can’t run him over and it would be a waste of a badly thrown scaffold bar, which would only be giving him my ammunition. I can rise above, in court I would be the guilty person anyway, picking on a poor defenceless child.
Why would I want to live here? Was the question I took to the viewing, and ‘I don’t’ was the once again the answer I took away from a house of 3 men living in the dominant shadow of Amber. They stood timidly in the kitchen whilst we awaited her home coming. I was offered tea; water was boiled in a saucepan. Cupboards previously unexplored were opened in search of a spare cup. Sugar was bought from a private stash in another room. Conversation was dominated by a speed freak as we all stood to attention around the seats of the kitchen table. His chatter slowed and he cowered away when the arrival of Amber, who works in media, became imminent. Sure enough she was an intimidating woman. Power dressed and assertive nature. She gave me 5 minutes intense grilling followed by cross examination and went to her room to watch TV. I would not be submitting my application to such a dominant woman. How would she have dealt with the thug kids? The same authoritative way she dealt with her roommates I expect.
Sleeping in the van didn’t bode well for such an area so I drove round the North Circular and found a busy lay-by on the side of the A12, far more familiar territory, the warmth and camaraderie parked between the artics.
With the morning all perspective has been lost. No one has bothered to call or even send the ‘we thought about it; no’ text.
I started this homelessness with 3 clear choices Thailand, India or London. I weighed up my options, considered every angle and opted for London; I'm beginning to think it was a miscalculation. If I don’t do this is it failure to achieve or failure to make the right decision?
Another McDonald’s car park, now viewing every ad with a cynicism as to why I couldn’t live there as opposed to the thrill of imminent contentment. I call on a well balanced friend, who can see the big picture and offers some good advice. ‘Why London, choose another city, choose Norwich, and the money you save on rent you can spend on the commute if you need to be there. You could still even have your oyster card.’ I sit in the comfort of her exceptionally large couch and have a 2nd cup of tea, but there is a discomfort, I can sense it but I'm not considering it. It’s in the stance, the body language, the conversation. It eventually has to be voiced to me, ‘well I have to go out, you’re welcome to stay, use the shower.’ Shit; I've just outstayed my welcome, I never do that, I usually leave early, it’s a trade mark. Now I'm the homeless thing on the couch that will not go. I go, I'm embarrassed. I have somewhere to go of course; I just don’t haven anywhere to stay.
Another car park another grey day, rain outside the window, condensation inside. I text a friend who has a room in Norwich the reply and invite are not instant.
I'm miles from London now and I'm not even interested in the ads I look at. I'm really out of options, I'm really homeless. I get an email from a German bike couple I met in Mongolia, ‘we are in India where are you?’ my reply is not instant.
I find a petrol station which has a truck park at the side of it. I stop and watch the grey get darker, rain rattles the roof at least it’s not stones, condensation drips, my tea steams, a land of dampness and moisture. The only dryness is the stale disappointment of the dry-bun-burger-van selling apathy in a napkin. I’m feeling pretty low.

With little else to occupy my mind I consider the prime parking spot. Over there, reversed up to the hedge, a perfect spot to creep out of the doors for a midnight calling. I tactically position the van into the quite, protected, level, discrete, calculated location. I walk round it to admire my well chosen positioning. This damp climate is ridicules my hands slips off the door handle as I try to open it, it happens twice, the third time realize I have locked myself out. The back doors are now safely locked and padlocked after last night’s experience and the passenger side is too. The keys are in the ignition, the phone is in it cradle and I'm outside, out of site and in pissing rain.
I know the score; I was locked out just a few months ago. With the help of a friend and a coat hanger, she was able to shout guidance from her vantage point as I guided the wire to open the catch I couldn’t see. And afterwards when the elation had subsided I never did hide my spare key under the bonnet, and that is why I am standing in pissing rain in the shadow of an orange glow. Locked out of the only thing I can call a home. This is shit.
There aren’t many choices, I need to get it. The cheapest window is the quarter window of the driver’s door. I tug at the rubber and manipulate the glass, getting more and more heavy handed, it moves and give a little encouragement. But it’s not enough. Perhaps I can persuade it. A high kick could jerk it from its rubber seal, it doesn’t take the hint. A second kick and still its holding its position. A third kick and it shatters, I put my hand through the window, get the keys out of the ignition unlock the door. I reach for the brush I keep under the seat, there are shrapnel diamonds lying in the dark cavities in front of the brush, I feel for the bristles and am bitten. I have gashed bleeding knuckles, a dash covered in glass, a van I can no longer secure. I'm soaked and desperate. Its time, I think, to admit defeat.
This is humiliating, this is depressing. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, it’s exactly what she did want to happen. When you are a 45 year old single male and living with your mother, two of those three things will stay constant, your gender and relationship status. I am not living with my mother; I am staying with my mother. It’s a significant difference. The difference being that I am charging my batteries and researching the quickest way to get an India visa stamped into my passport.
It’s a bit like going to Norwich; I just took it a step further I can fly back for the price of 2 weeks London rent. And I can live for a week for the cost of a tank full of petrol.

The scrap yard had a van like mine sitting just there in the mud. I'm free to remove the window I need. It’s not easy even when in dry daylight I can get to both sides of the door. With all the rubber removed its still takes, force and determination to get it out in one piece, no wonder my heavy footed approach last night didn’t work. 15 quid, perfect. Now I know now to get it out I just reverse the procedure to install it. With a lot of fairy liquid it pops into place.
Whilst I’m installing it I get a call, ‘did you get my text’ the Brazilian girl has been off work sick and used the time to vacate her room, its mine and I can move in as soon as I like. So she wasn’t moving before? What was all that noise then? And whilst I’m in a questioning mood it occurs to me this is the 2nd text I haven’t got, in fact I haven’t had one for days. I call the help centre; the recorded message says most problems are rectified but removing and replacing the sim card, well that clearly won’t help me. I wait to speak to a live Indian, who patiently spends an hour trying to source the problem. After all manner of tests he is unable to diagnose the fault and tells me to go see my local supplier.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with today?’
Yes there is, what’s the weather like there at the moment?
I know my local supplier won’t touch it; I got the phone 2nd hand off the internet. In one last desperate action I remove and replace the sim card and what do ya know? 20 texts and some voice mails come through. I've been offered lots of rooms and even been notified of the ones I didn’t get. Even my phone conspired to keep me homeless, everything happens for a reason. I'm meant to go to India.
With my new window the van is safe to leave at the station.
One more trip to London this time by train, to the Indian visa service building, where you wait in the overheated over crowed waiting room whilst your number isn’t called. It’s specifically designed that way; if you can’t deal with it you are not ready for India.
I should get it back by Friday but there is a really cheap flight on Thursday. I take too long to think about it and when I click it is no longer available. Dam it. I refresh and relook and find one for just a little more, one seat left it says. Are they fucking with me? I don’t think long enough, I click, it is mine. This is the point I would shout out, if I had a visa in my passport ‘I'm going to India’ but I don’t so I just sit there and fret about what I have just done.
I'm not about to post an enviable facebook status update, just to change it after the postman fails to deliver on Thursday morning to ‘is not going to India’ so I tell no one and spend my days refreshing the visa progress and tracking site and looking at the place my watch would be if I wore one.
Then it arrives and the anxiety turns to butterflies.
Once more on the train to London, I still don’t have an oyster card. I don’t know what carriage to get in to be by the exit at Heathrow’s Terminal 4 underground station. I don’t have to I won’t be back for a while.

When I turned my phone on I'm Mumbai airport I got a text from Norwich, ‘Yes of course you can come and stay’

Good, bad or indifferent, please comment, just so I know you're there...Flid