Charlotte England: Someone I used to date recently implied I was unreasonable for having concerns about his new girlfriend moving to my housing co-op and becoming my neighbour. I told him I was worried about losing the ability to avoid him if I needed to – it ended badly between us, and I still sometimes find him stressful. "It feels a bit unnecessary," I added, perhaps foolishly. He countered: "I disagree. You know the deal with finding places to live in London."
It's difficult to live in a city where he has a point. A room in my co-op is less than £300 a month, including bills. Between us, the 120 people who live here own and run the place together. We don't have a landlord. This is almost unheard of in London, where small rooms can cost upwards of £800 a month, power-crazed landlords seem to be evicting everyone and most people can't afford to keep their heating on.
As the rental crisis has worsened, desperation has become increasingly normal among applicants. A few months ago I fielded two queries in the same fortnight, asking if there was any way the co-op could fast-track someone who needed to escape an abusive ex-partner and a refugee facing homelessness. A woman in her sixties who interviewed last month had clearly rehearsed her pitch: she might be older than everyone else in the house, she said, and than most other people applying, but she hoped we wouldn't reject her out of ageism, because we were her last remaining option. She was living in a damp basement up north, where she felt isolated and was always cold. Meanwhile, her entire family lived in London. Her life was here, she said, but there was no other way she could afford to move back. "Forever!" she wrote optimistically on her application form, when asked how long she intended to stay. | |
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