Bedsit land in 1979 was definitely not salubrious. I know, because I was there. I can’t imagine why anyone would have a photograph of such a place, but the image accompanying this post is a ChatGPT rendering of the image I’ve carried around in my head since that time.
My bedsit, to which I retreated when my funds ran vanishingly low, was on the top floor of a four story building carved into numerous bedsit flats. The bathroom was on the mezzanine below. Each bedsit had a little cooker with a grill and burners, and a small oven. Sometimes the fridge worked, as ancient as it was. The water in my sink came out cold, especially after other residents had run their baths.
It felt, and I often remarked to myself and anyone else who would listen, like a starving artist’s garret. You quickly begin to realise that the actuality is much less impressive than the poetics. It was not a great place to bring visitors.
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