“World! I’ve bought a flat and finally made it onto the London property ladder!” I (metaphorically) cry from my building’s rooftop, jumping about like a loon, fist-pumping the air and generally flailing about in glee. That’s the good news. The not-so good news is that when I descend the metaphorical steps of said rooftop and approach my front door, I remember that, really, I’ve bought a shoebox, not a flat, because it’s London, and it’s 2016, and the ratio of pounds-sterling to square-footage is, quite frankly, a joke.
However, choosing to live in zone three was my decision. Without doubt, I’d have got more bang for my buck in zone 6. But I wanted the lazy life of convenient shop opening times, short commutes, coffee bars within strolling distance, expensive service charges and absolutely no room to swing a cat. I’m only five-foot-two; I don’t take up much room. So, being fully aware of my decision to live in miniature, I’m styling it out. And here’s how…
Of course I’ve given up space to live close to the city, but that’s all I’ve given up. It doesn’t make it any less mine, or any less enjoyable, or any less special. My name is on the deeds to this tiny plot of London, and you don’t need umpteen square-feet to feel proud of that.
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