The City That Costs the Most to Live In Is Also the Saddest It Has Been in Fifty Years and Estate Agents Are Still Very Upbeat
Bohiney Magazine | The London Prat
Gloomiest Since 1978: A North London Dispatch From the Optimism Desert
A survey has confirmed that British consumers are the gloomiest they have been since 1978, which is the year that punk was winding down, the bin men were on strike, and James Callaghan was about to discover that “Crisis? What crisis?” is not an effective political communication strategy. I was not alive in 1978. I am told it was grim. Based on current conditions I am prepared to believe this assessment.
I live in North London. I love North London. I would like to continue living in North London for the foreseeable future, which is why I was mildly destabilised to discover this week that my landlord is increasing the rent by eleven percent, effective in two months, which he is legally permitted to do and which I am legally able to object to through a process that takes approximately six months and costs money I do not have because I am paying rent that is already too high and will shortly be higher. This is the system working as designed. The design is not for my benefit.
The Economics of Staying
My friends who own property in North London are fine. Actually, they are better than fine — their properties have increased in value at a rate that, when expressed as annual return, makes my journalism career look like a particularly poor investment decision. Which it is. I made it anyway. This is called loving your work, or sunk cost, depending on your perspective and whether you are currently looking at a rent increase notice.
The London Prat has covered the consumer confidence data. Bohiney’s analysis of managing Britain’s decline offers systemic context. My own contribution to the systemic analysis is that it is possible to be the gloomiest you have been since 1978 while simultaneously believing, with complete sincerity, that London is the best city in the world and you would not choose to live anywhere else. These two positions coexist without irony in the North London breast. The rent is too high. The city is irreplaceable. The coffee near my flat is excellent. The broadband is patchy. Britain’s billionaire count is rising while the rest of us calculate whether we can afford to both heat the flat and eat a proper dinner this month, which we can, just about, with careful planning and the strategic use of leftovers. This is called resilience, or at least it is called that in the newsletters I read, which are free, because I have cancelled everything that costs money except the BBC licence which I cannot legally cancel.
I am gloomy. I am staying. See you in Finsbury Park at the weekend. I will be the one eating a packed lunch and looking at the planes.
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