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Nicholas Lezard is a literary critic for the Guardian and also writes for the Independent. He writes the Down and Out in London column for the New Statesman.
During my evening jaunts, I revel in the crashing waves at my feet and the inscrutable Morse code of the pulsing lights.
Having moved into my new flat, I realise costs that have been hitherto hidden from me – water, gas, electricity, internet, the consequences of my folly – are now besieging me.
As I squint through my window at the wind farm in the distance, I feel my next buy should be a pair of binoculars.
With the keys to my new abode finally in my pocket I breathe a sigh of relief, until I remember I need to buy a bed.
“Ikea,” says everyone, but I'm not wild about making my own furniture. Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t that someone else’s job?
As my impending homelessness looms, I remain at the mercy of estate agents and homeowners.
Misery is learning that, in 1930, I could have earned the equivalent of $2,130 for one lousy review.
Once you get to Archway, two stops on the Tube from East Finchley, London gets a little too hot for me.
My eviction is a bomb with a clearly indicated timer on it, ticking down to 1 October. Now that's a crisis.
I am building not so much castles in the air as one-bedroom flats.