I wrote the following over 10 years ago. Stratford has probably changed a lot since then. Also, I have changed a lot of the names and details below.
Stratford is a dump. When you say to people you live in Stratford they look confused for a second and say something like - isn't that a hell of a commute? Then you tell them it's East London and there's another blank look and the conversation moves on, to Putney or Highgate or Ealing. You walk from the station along a shabby main road on uneven tarmac and think of Belsize Park, or Cambridge or Lincoln. Then into your flat, which you've finally paid to get decorated, and listen to the neighbours kids singing to themselves next door.
You're happy though, because you're waiting to leave. A few months ago you decided that you had to take control, and sat down and thought, what can I do? What do I want to do, what would I be good at, what would make me happy. And you decide on computers, a graduate training scheme at the age of 27. So you check the advertisements, and there are a couple of jobs, and you apply, go for interviews, get a job, and suddenly it's all sorted. You grin to yourself and let out a long sigh that seems to go on forever, feel a weight lift, feel a foot taller.
But there are complications. Like your flat - well, rent it out, easy. The job's in another city, so what, move there. And the other job you got, another recruitment job you were headhunted for while you were applying for the IT jobs, and you took because it seemed better than what you were doing, and you couldn't be sure you'd get the computer job. So you have to start there - got to pay the mortgage, work for two months then hand your notice in. It's kind of stressful because on the first day you know you're going to hate it, but it's kind of not because when alls said and done you know you're leaving in two months and what do you care.
The boss is a c*** from the word go. An Irish guy, famous in the industry for being a c*** of the first order. He tells you, we work from 8.15 to 7, 8 til 8 on Tuesdays. You'll always have work to do. If you don't have any work, find some. There are always more people to ring, we work as a team and we work hard. No excuses. Every two days he calls you in and gives you a dressing down - he seems to have a rota for who is next. The atmosphere in the office is awful, and there are rumours about people being called in and sacked on the spot because Irish doesn't like them. And if you weren't leaving you'd be a nervous wreck within days.
Tuesdays are special because on Tuesdays you get to work even harder - for the good of the team. The first time you hear this you breath out a bit too sharply through your nose and Irish looks at you hard, and you hold his gaze thinking - this is a joke. On Tuesdays, after six, you have the pleasure of ringing people up who are on the database but haven't spoken to for six months, a year, two years. You get to ring these people up at home, while they're working late, while they're having a drink, at any time they don't really want to speak to you, and they don't know who you are. You get to be really false and really pally, because Irish is listening, and see if these people who were vaguely thinking about moving jobs a year ago want some impromptu career advice, and you get to miss your evening doing it.
You like a couple of the people you work with, Gary and Cat. But mostly they're typical recruitment consultants, all pally and smiles and full of advice, but with hard looks, lean faces, all fuck-you underneath. Gary and Cat are different though, genuine, too nice for this game, and within a few days they're telling you to beware of Irish, beware of Sam and Keiron and Sharon, the over important secretary. Irish is a c*** they say, and laugh when you feign surprise, giggle, say - he's a real c***. Cat especially is unhappy there, hates the hours, hates the fact that Irish sees her weak points, sees the fact that she can't give up her job because of her mortgage, pushes her, exploits her. And Gary is a failed Barrister, and is deep in debt from Bar school and is caught in a trap.
Then one day at 7.30 in the evening, Irish calls you into his office. It's your Nanna's birthday, and you've just come off the phone from her, watching Irish out of the corner of your eye, watching you while you're on the phone. You go in and he says, this is never easy, but this isn't working out, so we're going our separate ways. I want you out of the building in twenty minutes. Do you have anything to say. You think - well, shall I call him a c***, then know that there's no point, he must have heard it all before, and you would have handed your notice in in two weeks anyway. So you just say - there's nothing to say, and you get up, pack up your stuff, look at Gary and Cat's bewildered faces, see the faces of the others turned carefully away, and leave.
It's good because they have to pay you your notice period, and it's nice being paid while you're laying in bed, thinking about leaving, planning to buy a ticket and go to Greece, bum around for a couple of weeks. A week later, Cat calls you and says - I've joined your club. You say what, and she says - he's sacked me. You look at your watch and it's before nine in the morning, and you curse Irish and talk to Cat, tell her not to worry, that you'll come into town and buy her a drink.
Then you're in Greece, an unplanned holiday and nobody to go with. But it's travelling and you know you'll meet people, the ubiquitous chilled out Aussie travellers, perfect antidotes to stress and London and terrible Irish bosses. You spend a night in Athens, then get a ferry in the morning to Ios, the party island, and spend a lonely couple of days there, sunbathing, trying to talk to the kids who just drink and drink and drink, get a ferry to Naxos. It's a great place, a place you came eight years before with Lucy, and it's got good memories for you. You find a place to stay, spend a couple of days wandering around with a German hippy called Manuel, a nice guy who it's good to chill out in the evenings with. When he leaves you wish he could stay, and you swap email addresses, wave him off on the ferry, wander on your own back to the place you're staying. You're drunk and you crash on the bed, fall into an uneasy sleep.
The next day you wake up and, as if by magic, three Aussies have appeared, and they're sitting around, all just met, playing cards and shouting at each other - you cheat you cheat, and falling about laughing. You say hi, have you just arrived, and they pull you up a chair and deal you in. You all go your separate ways that day, but arrange to meet for dinner in the evening, and that night it's great, you all click with each other, Michael, Sonya, Brigitte, and out of nowhere you're on your biggest bender for years. You have a beer over the meal, all polite and deferring to each other, then another and another and another, and it's a great idea to go to a bar and then another and another. Suddenly it's six in the morning, and you're stumbling up through the streets of the old town trying to keep your voices down, feeling tired, purged, on top of the world.
The next day comes, you stick together, bumming around in the afterglow of the night before. You stick together for the next week, go to Koufonissi, where the beaches are near-perfect, all white sand and water that only comes up to your knees fifty yards out, come back, and then you're waving goodbye, back in Athens, London, Stratford. Making plans to leave.
Leaving Stratford is great, because it's all fucked there. Nothing more poetic than that, because it's a place without poetry - not a bad place, just a vast slum, dead and empty, a ruin. The pavements are uneven, and the air is grey, and everywhere smells of kebabs, or hopelessness. Even the trees look forlorn, as though they're on the verge of uprooting themselves, and sloping off into the night, in search of Richmond Park or the New Forest. You shove your stuff into black bags and hire a man with a van, a solemn looking Sikh guy, who turns up on time and doesn't say much, except how much he dislikes the area.
He drives you out onto the endless ring roads North, then North-West, and you pass through familiar Wembley. You crane your neck to get a last look at the place as you go, feel something you can't put your finger on, and Mr Singh looks at you, but says nothing, turns the radio up. Then down through the West to Kew and Richmond, memories of Hannah now, seeming like an age ago, and then you're away, on a great road, fast and empty, and as you speed away from London you both relax a bit, and he asks you why you're moving away, tells you that he likes his job, hates London, wants to go home to Pakistan, a nice country, beautiful.
Then, you're there, the new house, and Kal and Simon are inside and smile hellos and give you a hand with the stuff. Kal gets talking to Mr Singh in Punjabi, and Mr Singh gives him a tape of Asian music. Kal thanks him politely, and before you know it he's away, driving back to London. You wave goodbye, and watch the van disappear round the corner of your new road, pick up the last of the black bags from the garden, take them to your room upstairs, close the blue front door behind you.
