The rooms in the Hackney Wick building quickly filled up with people, but there wasn't a new friend among them. Of the two dozen or so couples, families with young kids and single young men who came to occupy the rooms, only two ever exchanged more than a shallow nod with me in all the months I lived there. One was a larger Nigerian lady who used to scream at me or any friends I had over, any time she found us in the communal bathrooms or kitchen. The other was a young guy who lived at the end of the corridor who kept trying to sell me weed. Back then I might have eventually taken him up on the offer, if I'd ever been able to afford it, and if he hadn't ended up almost getting me killed.

While it was clear that my (in hindsight pretty young and stupid) Warhol Factory dream for the place was dead, things were still fine. I was at work most days, and spent most evenings either seeing friends or wandering round different parts of the city I still couldn't quite believe I lived in. As a place to crash, the room met my needs, and much as the other tenants weren't overly friendly to me or to each other, they weren't hostile in any way either, and so we all co-existed happily enough. Even the screaming lady stopped after a while, following a talk we had about it, though I'm still not totally sure what her issue had been.

The only time there was ever any hint of a problem was one night after a payday night out in Shoreditch. After waiting a while for a night bus that never came, I decided to treat myself to a taxi home, but try though I did, I couldn't find a single taxi driver who was willing to go anywhere near my building - specifically that building - at that time of night. I ended up just walking back. Hackney Wick from Shoreditch isn't so far for drunk legs to go, and I always loved walking around the city at night.