Dum spiro spero

In July 2019, my son, Cosmin, who just completed his master’s degree in Bucharest, received a fantastic offer for a PhD programme at the University of Bucharest, accompanied by a significant bursary. In the meantime, a conditional offer was made by UCL in London for the PhD course. I felt so proud and happy about this; however, it put my son in heavy indecision. Since UCL’s offer relied on language tests, which usually take longer, my husband and I had not yet decided to leave our settled life in Nottingham and move to London.

Many would agree that I should not move cities to be with my son, who was already a grown-up man. But I was keen to have Cosmin nearby and support him until he finished his studies. We were estranged due to years of physical distance and unresolved conflicts within our family. The weight of our past lingered, shaped by hardships, unspoken words, and painful experiences that left scars on all of us. I always supported him financially, but reuniting now felt like a second chance, a hopeful step toward healing what had been broken.

We knew nothing about London’s best or worst place to live, so we did some Google research; then, at the end of July, we started “hunting” a house via Rightmove. We were utterly shocked by the housing prices in London’s zones far from the centre, which were double or even triple the price we paid in Nottingham for a cosy one-bedroom apartment in the city’s heart. We saw the houses, flats, and studios, and for the money we could afford, we did not like any of them, yet we had to choose something, lowering our standards of likeability. So, we called the agent or the landlord to ask for a viewing.

“So, you are from Nottingham. Could you be here in 2 hours? Oh, you can’t. Sorry then,” … Beep…. Beep… the man dropped the call.  

“Yes, sure, I could book you in tomorrow at 10 am. You can’t be here tomorrow; you can only be here after tomorrow. You need to take off from work. I see. Sorry. We already have other 17-20 views. Tomorrow, we will give the house.”

“That’s sorted out. Tomorrow at 11 am, I will be waiting for you in front of the house.”

Hurray, we finally got a view! My husband called in sick to free up time in our house seeking. These guys are rushing the process, so we must keep up with their speed. And if there will be a London house viewing tomorrow, let’s try to arrange other viewings, too, just in case.

“So, you said you are Pakistani, and your wife is Romanian. I see… Let me check the diary… uhm uhm… Unfortunately, we are full for tomorrow. After tomorrow, I can book you, but there is no guarantee. We are aiming to secure the house by tomorrow… No problem. Bye.”

We called probably another 10, but there was no chance. So tomorrow, there will be only one property viewing.  

Little did we know that London’s housing market was so different from the one in Nottinghamshire, making us frustrated and wasting our time. Other “surprises” were yet still to come.

On his way to London the next day, my husband received a call from the landlord he was supposed to meet. “Hi there, just to let you know, I cancelled the viewing. Bye”

Already frustrated, we dug deeper into the housing websites while my husband spent the rest of the journey calling the estate agents. 

“Sure, I will be there at 4 pm. Thank you.”

“Yes, at 11:30, it’s okay. See you there.”

“Mashallah, you speak very well English. No, the price is fixed. It is not expensive. Look on the market. My house is a bargain. Oh, you want something cheaper. Good luck, brother.”

“Golders Green is a fantastic area to live in…Where are you from? You are from Pakistan. Okay, I shall see you at 2 pm…. Hold on… My wife is saying that she can’t find the keys. I will call you back when we get them” … Beep… Beep…

To some extent, the day in London was a viewing property race. Discovering places that looked so much different from the images uploaded on the websites. A heavy, damp smell filled the air as my husband stepped inside, clinging to the walls like an unshakable presence. The dim light from a single, flickering bulb barely reached the corners of the cramped room, where patches of black mould crept up the walls like spreading ink stains. The ceiling sagged and cracked in places, revealing water damage and neglect. The footsteps echoed against the stained, uneven floor, each step stirring up dust that danced in the weak light. The grandeur promised in the advertisement felt like a cruel joke. This was not the “opera house” from the ad; it was just a decaying space where the air seemed weighed down by years of neglect. A sinking feeling settled in my chest, disappointment mixed with frustration as I realised how far reality was from expectation. Not to mention the neighbourhood areas. Clustered with shops which extended their shelves on the street pavement, having customers blocking the way, with busses passing slowly through the narrow roads in never-ending car cordons. With spilt food over the boulevards and garbage bags thrown on the pathways. It gave a sense of filthiness and unwelcoming. And all of these, I had to see and feel for myself as other London hunting days came up for me and my husband.

Why is finding a house such a horrible experience? Why is London so expensive, dirty and clustered? I put my head into my hands and let my thoughts find answers that were neither clear nor helpful. I was exhausted already. And somehow, I wished my son would pick up the offer in Bucharest. London was already too hostile to us.

However, London was his preference, and once the English tests were done, his place was confirmed at UCL. We were already in the beginning of September. The house search became more intense. One more try, we were encouraging ourselves along the way while excavating more febrile into the housing crisis.

One of the agents nicely explained a few tips we were unaware of. Firstly, the people who viewed the house and were happy to take it were put on a list and then submitted to the landlord. Then, the owner decided whom would give the home based on their preferences and the prospective tenant’s circumstances. And, alas, this would variably differ from landlord to landlord, depending on their bias, education, prejudices, and so on, making house hunting an uncertain bingo.   

In the meantime, my husband handed in his resignation, as he already secured a job in London, despite the fact we had not yet moved into the capital. His Camden’s job was supposed to start by October, giving us time to play the renting lottery. He then stayed in his cousin’s studio near St Pancras for a few days and viewed almost twenty properties around London and the outskirts.

By 13 September 2019, luckily, we had signed with Townends the Lettings Application for Tenancy, Flat 200, City House, 420 London Road, Hallelujah! Who cared then that the flat was exactly in a place we would soon hate so much! Since the flat was clean, furnished and full of daylight, we were happy to start the paperwork adventure.

As the agent told us, we were not successful on the first go, but the couple who won the lottery had some guinea pigs, and since these counted as pets, the landlord declined their approval, picking us in return. With all the paperwork processed, we moved in on 25 September. Finally! Our London house-hunting nightmare came to an end.

I wished that the stress of the last months would end, yet London embraced us with some weird and challenging wings. So little did we know that more distress was on our way.

On the morning of 25 September, we packed our belongings into a friend’s car. With my husband driving the fully loaded vehicle, they headed to Croydon in Zone 5 of Greater London. I stayed behind in Nottingham to catch an evening train, as the car had no space left. Upon arrival, Karim collected the keys and unpacked our belongings into the new house. My son also had his flight from Bucharest that evening, and Karim offered to pick him up from the airport. My son and I were finally about to be reunited after years of being apart. What a wonderful feeling!

That Friday nightfall, I tasted the first cup of London’s vibes as I sat in the East Croydon Train Station, waiting for the next train, then the next train, and so on, for my boys to arrive from Luton Airport, curiously watching the people, buzzing and walking around. My son’s flight was late; then it took another hour to get out of the border’s control. Worried, tired and stressed out but still having a sense of accomplishment, looking towards the future with hopeful dreams, I could not wait for them to arrive so we could go to our new flat. Since I had no keys and the dark already wrapped the surroundings, I carried on watching the trains coming and going; I felt safer staying inside the station, on the platform, rather than waiting outside. It was 2 am when a message popped on my phone: “We are outside the station. See you at the barriers.”

“We had such an unpleasant adventure, my dear”, said Karim. “By the time Cosmin was out of the border’s control, the bus tickets were sold out. We eventually made it to Victoria Station, hoping for a train. But unfortunately, the last one already left. By chance, the only available transport was a taxi, which costed only £70.”

“Welcome to London!” I smiled and hugged my son tightly, then my husband. “We have made it, guys! Let’s get home and rest properly. Tomorrow, oh, no, today is Saturday; we can all have a well-deserved rest.”

The night covered us with its charm, while another taxi took us to the 200 City House on 420 London Road, where little we knew, we would experience one challenging year, including a pandemic beginning, the stay-at-home orders, quarantines, NHS clapping and COVID-19 episodes.

I started travelling to Nottingham for my job. Suddenly, I had to experience the weekly commuting, with National Express coaches and trains from Victoria to East Croydon becoming my enduring places, where I would rest, plan, think, rethink, love and hate the new version of my new life. Finding a job in London was impossible, so I gave up trying. Luckily, if this could be an elegant saying, my employer put me on a furlough plan in March 2020, as the pandemic kicked in. After many stressful months, staying home was a blessing. I was finally enjoying the feeling of home and the family vibes in our cosy apartment, yet I was also about to discover my neighbourhood with its terrible flaws and scars.

In our new routine, we adapted to realities like quarantine, brief midday walks, and the discomfort of suffocating masks while witnessing peculiar events that could inspire a detective writer’s imagination. Our windows welcomed the afternoons and sunsets, flooding the rooms with an overwhelming heat. Rain was a rare visitor, as if, too, was sheltering in the sky, hesitant to interfere with humankind’s affairs. To have a proper ventilation, we were always obliged to keep the windows open, but being on the 13th floor, they never opened fully, restrained by built-in safety mechanisms. Every Thursday at 8 pm, the city erupted in applause for NHS workers, with noise echoing from every direction. Pots banging, tunes rising, was still combining in a gentle blast, if I may. The unexpected came instead from the disturbances that seemed to be a familiar thing in Croydon. Shouting on the streets, women fighting, police car sirens, drug dealers capturing, and witnessing people from the block helping the police in tracking the bad guys. Jokingly, I said many times that I could do a fantastic job as a local journalist, reporting on the odd events that shook the neighbourhood. A Croydon, which looked dirty, with fly-tipping hotspots everywhere, with rising concerns over the health risks and unpleasant odours. Luckily, the little parks and the street trees brought the green to a high level of thankfulness, helping us stay sane on the map of the pandemic.

If this is London, then no, thank you! Once the year completed our tenancy agreement, we made our way back to Nottingham. If the pandemic brought something good, at least for a while, it was the online classes that enabled my son to join us. After another 8 months, we moved back to London, but we had done better research this time and chose to stay right in the heart of the capital. However, that’s a different London story that spiced my life, which I will tell you next time.

© Simona Prilogan, 11/05/2025, London

Image credit: Pixabay