Every time I eat a sun-dried tomato I die a little inside

Original image © timbearcub

So, I’ve spent the last year living in Highgate, having felt my time in Archway had come to a natural conclusion when December arrived and the house I was living in had no heating, no working oven, no functional lighting in the kitchen, 90db Hip-Hop at weekends and a mouse infestation so chronic that the other tenants had taken to approaching the kitchen with heavy footsteps, to give the mice a chance to run away; out of sight, out of mind, you see?

Highgate is only one tube stop north of Archway but when you arrive there it’s like you’ve accidentally arrived in some sort of Oxfordshire village, all leafy and judgmental with a nice park and something called a Fruiterer. It’s part of this vaguely wealthy, not very stabby part of North London, alongside Muswell Hill and Crouch End and doesn’t feel like you’re in London any more, something high on my list of requirements for comfortable living.

It’s been nice living here; I buy food from local butchers and greengrocers and cheesemongers and that’s turned out to be cheaper and better for me than buying from supermarkets as I no longer accidentally stock up on Frosties. I spend many relaxing hours on park benches dedicated to a wide variety of dead people and I rent a drafty, empty, one-bedroom flat about 300% too large for me that’s about 60 seconds walk from the tube station. I seem to be, generally, doing ok.

I’m never happy

The only real problem I have with Highgate and the surrounding area is that it’s largely full of the sort of people you might expect to find living in Highgate and the surrounding area; young, wealthy white couples with spaniels and well-dressed children that never seem to age beyond five years. Everybody seems to have a double-barrelled pushchair that must be accommodated by all restauranteurs and shop-keepers, at the risk of having the mother act aghast and outraged as she discovers that her armoured vehicle doesn’t fit down the quirky, rustic, winding staircase.

Then there’s the conversation, usually loud conversation in affected plummy voices – plummy enough to indicate wealth but not plummy enough to indicate actual breeding. The smug, middle-class tedium on offer to the casual eavesdropper make me want to drive a spike through my head. For instance, “Tasha’s going to look after the rabbit while we’re away in Africa” and “He’s going to buy her the ring from whatever money is left over from his new bathroom” and – my own personal favourite – “So, we finally bought a pepper mill”. I had my hair cut the other day and overheard the man sitting next to me explain to his hairdresser than when he first went to Thailand he was there backpacking, and it was a real struggle to refrain from standing up, shouting “Yes, of course, of course you were backpacking! Because that’s what you lot do, isn’t it? You backpack around fucking Thailand” as I repeatedly drove a comb into his sternum.

It’s hard not to eavesdrop, so loud and weirdly fascinating is the banality. For instance, Little Casper and Sasha, referenced briefly a few weeks ago, are not just names I picked out of my “Ridiculous names wealthy middle class parents would pick for their vile spawn” hat but are in fact real children whose mother sat near me in a café ranting about her ex-husband not fulfilling the terms of their divorce, i.e., that he would get little Casper and Sasha for 40% of the time, which was going to be impossible as he was talking first about moving to Edinburgh and then to Cornwall, and the mother of course would be happy to have little Casper and Sasha 100% of the time but that isn’t what the divorce contract says so she’s going to have to call in the lawyers again and he’s just not thinking of the children and oh my god my brain has dribbled out of my nose.

So I’m getting restless, and cursing myself every time I do something that seems, to me, to be a typically North London thing to do, like eat sun-dried tomatoes or get involved in anything balsamic or buy something needlessly rustic or provide my own shopping bag. The men of Highgate all wear plain shoes, blue jeans and simple GAP sweatshirts, which pretty much describes what I wear all the time, annoyingly. It’s difficult to go around being aloof and cynical when you look exactly the same and act exactly the same way as everyone else. I caught myself contemplating buying a top hat the other day, just to mix things up a little, but my heart wasn’t really in it.

Still, at least I don’t look like all I’m thinking about is putting up some shelves and maybe having a light beer. I hope so, anyway. I’d like to think that I look like I’m thinking about committing the murder act upon everyone I pass, which, if nothing else, keeps people out of my way.