. . .that epitome of central London shopping excellence, just north of Hyde Park and yapping at the heels of Mr Al Fayed's Harrods, was close to yet another temp' residence for YT in the early 1990s.

Legend ( as well as fact ) has it that one of the Fuhrer's top rocket man's best WW2 V2 rockets made a somewhat surprising visitation upon this multi-layered store in c. 1944. In fact right through the top dome. Some expert guidance system that dastardly Nazi Verner Von Braun knocked up for sure. In fact he was so good the thick yanks snapped him up to pioneer their space program and fake missions to the moon, 1969-1972.

But I digress. I habituated a rather grand Georgian ground floor flat, not a minute walk from the renovated and rejuvenated ( sounds like a massage ad) Whiteleys for approx 6 months.
During that time much fear and loathing transpired.

It didn't take long to kick off. In fact before it kicked off it kicked off. The evening I was moving in, I had leaned one of the two Persian rugs I had especially purchased for the front and back rooms, against a stately pillar outside the front door to my proud new flat. My car was parked up not 20 yards away with the second carpet inside. As I returned with it over my shoulder I blinked twice to see the first carpet had disappeared! I had not been away more than 20 seconds! Incredible!

Some swine had nicked it! In shock, for this was a £200 rug, I toured the streets in vain, looking for the dastardly villain who had snatched my carpet right out from under my nose -but to no avail.

Coming to terms with my loss, after a couple of weeks of settling in to my apartment and upon checking the location of the electric cupboard, I casually noticed the old electricity consumption wheel merrily whizzing around at some rate of knots, when the only electrical apparatus operating in the flat was the fridge.

So I switched the supply off at the mains. Still the wheel whizzed.

On complaining to the landlord's agent and shelling out 50 notes for my own independent electrician to give a report, it transpired the people next door ( the agent's E. European cheapo handymen) had wired their electric supply through my flat's electric meter via a drilled hole through the 2 ft separating wall.

Apppy polly loggies all round of course and on I went with my hopeful life in the West End.

Day and night however, despite the rather cool wooden shutters at the front bay windows, I found it rather difficult to put up with the 24/7 ( know you wont believe me but I invented that very term) passage of drone tourists parading on the pavement outside. The traffic was incredible in it's never-say-die tiresome insistence and the monoxide hell drifting into my lungs oppressive and constant.

So "fuck it" I thought, this place is getting to me.

So I defaulted on the rent and upped sticks to go to Scotland. Threats ensued from the agent for the rent. But I had already paid a massive deposit, so decided to use it up and leave on the exact date it ran out. I'd had enough of the congestion, basically.

Early on the lease expiry morning, my stuff packed into the hire van for the journey to my next move - Glasgow, I waited in the van. . . .and watched.

There, with the spare key, standing on the doorstep of my empty old flat, was one of the Polish handymen from next door who I had learnt to recognize. Ready to take over my flat - and with a lovely big Persian rug hanging over his shoulder.

London. Just love it to bits!

MSt.M