After emerging from post-holiday hibernation, during which I did little else besides crocheting whilst binge-watching Netflix and eating bon-bons, I returned to the internet, that great information highway (or by-pass).
For most of my news, I read the Guardian,* supplemented (cautiously) by the Globe and Mail for Canadian content, the New York Times for essays, and the Gawker pantheon for entertainment (mostly science and feminism). Occasionally, though, one needs to hate-read. Hate-reading is not so one is reminded that the world is a terrible place full of terrible events, the news covers that just fine. No: hate-reading is to be reminded that people are THE WORST.
As my first day of being thirty years old passes, we find ourselves having forsaken London. We went out flat hunting, paperwork in hand like rifles, the tube like horses and hounds. After several false starts, I had to admit to myself that London just wasn’t worth it. Paying a thousand pounds for a small flat (bed bugs likely included) in a part of town I would be scared to walk in at night, spending an hour on the tube just to get to a part-time job at a fabulous bookshop just didn’t add up.
I feel terrible about it, but I turned down the job at the bookshop. As much as I would have loved to work there (and the fact that job-hunting in this country has been as futile and depressing as hell, but that’s the subject of another post), the part-time hours and level of pay just didn’t rationalise the ridiculous London rent. After crunching numbers, I calculated that the difference in price to live in a shitty London flat versus a decent flat anywhere else was more than I would make. In essence, living outside London unemployed would be cheaper than living in London and working part-time minimum wage.