I am about to swap the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf for the warehouse conversions of Hackney Wick, where suited finance bros will be supplanted by startup entrepreneurs (by day) and DJs (by night). I am about to leave the comfort of the E14 nest I share with my best friend for a flat where I will be living with a boyfriend for the first time, plus my friends Joe and Frida, who are a married couple. Cohabiting with my partner—and two friends who have done something as adult as getting married—feels like a big step towards a more grownup lifestyle.
The process of packing up my bedroom has led to the resurfacing of some unexpected items and, with them, emotions. I have accidentally excavated so many relics from my adolescence, including a handwritten letter from a former lover, some stolen jellybeans, a framed photo with a now ex-best friend, birthday cards from my late grandmother, plus scraps of gig tickets, club wristbands and printed invitations to orgies. I have started performing a kind of ritual, sitting on my bed and holding each intriguing object for just a moment and revisiting the memories attached. Some are good, some are bad, some are bittersweet, but I have never felt the ache of nostalgia so powerfully.
There are elements of my early twenties that I will miss, like the unbridled chaos of running around one of the world’s biggest cities. I will miss sharing bottles of red wine on the steps of St Paul’s Cathedral with men I matched with on Tinder; getting the night bus back over Tower Bridge after a Sunday night sexcapade; taking Morley’s chicken burgers to bed at 3am on a random Tuesday. I will also miss the people who briefly entered and exited my life during this tumultuous era—the spontaneous first dates, the one-night-stands, the Goldsmith graduates upon whom I had hopeless crushes. They will all stay with me through trinkets and old journal entries.
But it’s not all funny anecdotes about snogging strangers. I also feel a wave of gratitude for the unique depth of friendship that comes with flat sharing. The cosy nights curled up in the living room with my best friends watching Lena Dunham’s Girls, Nathan for You, Love Island and even Strictly Come Dancing now feel precious. The Friday nights in with friends don’t feel “domestic” or like you’ve “settled down” in the same way spending a weekend in with your significant other does. Doing fuck-all with your friends is true self-care—there is nothing better for your wellbeing than microwaved popcorn, an £8 bottle of vinho verde and reality TV with your mates.
While there is no specific item to evoke this memory of friendship, it’s embedded in the very fabric of the flat I’m leaving behind. I look at the sofa and hear our deep meaningful conversations (DMCs) about the wrongdoings of various men; the kitchen table reminds me of midweek dinners shared or 2am takeaways scoffed.
I will say that Frida’s excitement at securing her first rental and her enthusiasm for London—having just moved here—is contagious. Her optimism has thawed the icy layer that has formed around the idea of the city in my heart—my London years have involved some staggering lows, including two redundancies and half a dozen depressive episodes.
In the next house, the four of us will be freefalling towards 30 and the pile of expectations that come with that age. I am glad that we are doing it together.
And while my future still glitters with disco balls, east London baddies and house parties, I am so grateful for the years I spent in flatshares with my friends, fucking around and finding out.
