Written on 15 November 2018
I was regretting my decision already.
I wanted to get to England before the visa changes came in, so I applied for every entry level engineer job I could find. One firm took me on as a “paid intern” which apparently meant they would pay for my travel.
“Plus a little bit extra. For food and stuff.” the interviewer told me. So, essentially, I was being paid for fuel and mileage, to ensure my work wasn't disrupted by my abject poverty. “you’re a skandy, though, so you'll probably become a full time employee in a couple of years.”
Instead of asking him what being from a rather large and vague region had to do with my ability as an engineer I said “Thank you for the opportunity.” and began booking flights.
I was regretting my decision already.
Part of the reason I wanted to leave Finland was the cold. But when my Norwegian Air flight touched down at “London” Stansted I was greeted by a northerly wind that chilled me to my core and driving rain that somehow seeped through my distinctly waterproof winter jacket.
After spending most of my remaining money on a taxi to actual London I arrived at my flatshare. The ad had said Balham, but we drove for another 20 minutes after passing Balham station. The rendering was falling off the exterior walls in giant clumps, the windows were filthy and the front garden was overgrown with a mixture of weeds and rubbish. I knocked on the splintered front door and, 2 minutes later, it opened. A guy who looked no older than 19 in a dressing gown answered. He'd apparently just woken up, despite it being 5pm and dark.
“Are you the weed guy?”
I was regretting my decision already.
The House was an absolute bomb site. There were what looked like ketchup stains all over the worn, frayed carpet. The egg yolk yellow paint was cracked all over the walls, and in some places there were just large holes in the drywall, as if someone had the thought of removing the wall with a sledge hammer, but had decided against it after a few swings.
The lounge contained two people passed out on the lumpy sofas, the guy showing me around didn't know who they were, yet didn't seem too concerned that they were there. A Family Guy DVD menu screen was chattering away on the tired looking television.
The kitchen was awash with takeaway cartons, dirty plates, beer cans, shoes and buckets(!?) The fridge had a mouldy carton of what used to be noodles and 5 dented cans of Fosters. “The offie down the road sells dented cans on the cheap.” my tour guide told me enthusiastically. A clearly abandoned chore rota was still stuck to the fridge, as if it's mere presence would tidy the house for the residents.
My bedroom was a single bed cupboard with a loan broken wardrobe for storage and a mattress that was now more springs than anything. The blind was broken, apparently, so my choices were perpetual darkness or being overlooked by the racist grandpa that lived next door.
The bathroom was alive with mould and grime.
I was regretting my decision already.
Back in the kitchen my tour guide, who was called Nick apparently, told me the rent had actually gone up to £750 a month from when I'd emailed, so actually I owed another 150 to cover the 3 months of rent I wanted in advance. A guy in his early 20’s walked in with slicked back hair and an Ill fitting blue suit.
“Oi, oi. Is this the new guy?” He asked Nick. Nick nodded.
“Hello. I'm Dave.” he said very loudly and slowly as if I didn't understand.
“Hi”
“Is his English alright?” Dave asked Nick, as if I wasn't there.
“My English is fine, thank you.” I said, trying to muster a smile. Dave looked taken aback.
“Well, I guess you're from one of the good European countries then. Welcome to the party mansion mate. Don't even think about touching my noodles.” He went to leave, but turned back with a grin. “Oh. And welcome to England.” he said with a wink.
So many regrets for someone so young.