The scent of London called my name from a stew of childhood comforts:
Harry Potter, The Secret Garden, Matilda
simmering with The Beatles, Oasis, The Verve
and marinating in high hopes and stale stubbornness.
I came of age flying over borders
joining the dots
of an asymmetrical family tree
sprouting neutral accents,
settling for words that aren’t mine.
Home was conditional.
Home was dismissive.
Home was transitory.
Ten years ago, I build a fort in Camden
for me to play ‘house’ in.
I pin a corner
to sleep during the day
write cover letters at night
eat undercooked meat
and burnt rice from the pan
self-soothe with chocolate pudding
thoughts stewing over deposits,
guarantors and salmonella.
I find a part-time job at a creaky theatre
with humble socialist beginnings
where the shows are experimental
made in chaos by golden retriever twenty-something artists.
Maroon and mustard tiles on the outside
mismatched chairs and festoon lighting on the inside.
Faded leather armchairs
wedged between
corporate Euston
and gentrified Camden.
I meet him at my trial shift.
He asks for my number and I say yes
wondering if mixing theatre with pleasure is ever a good idea.
He hangs fairy lights around my fort
and helps me build a fire for my first London winter.
From six-month-anniversary orchids hidden in the bar lift
to working overtime at the theatre
only to come home to a flat we’re too tired to nest in.
We argue about who cleaned what
play the silent treatment over stock take.
We wonder if we have
anything in common
beyond the theatre.
I befriend other wandering artists.
Drinking tea behind the bar,
we bond over favourite playwrights
we dream of becoming
and pop punk anthems
we refuse to stop humming.
We lock up, cash up,
open up about starting therapy
how our parents let us drift across the Atlantic
only to point out the chipped floor paint
and broken air conditioner
asking if we’ll stay at the theatre past thirty.
In 2020, I did turn thirty.
After cancelling shows and boarding up the theatre
some of us go home to cook old family recipes
celebrate birthdays on zoom
and look for jobs away from the theatre.
As for me and him, we go home to our flat
rekindle the energy to nest and recall
our commonalities that transcend the theatre.
Later that year, we go back to work.
Fresh layer of teal paint on the outside
matching furniture and plastic plants on the inside.
A new generation of twenty-something artists emerges
and thirty-something me
stops settling for what’s no longer mine.
I know a job is not a home
colleagues are not a family.
The theatre is just another converted pub
on its eventual destiny to luxury flats.
Instead of nodding along at bottomless brunch
or making small talk at Sunday roast dinner,
we saw each other’s plays
got paid London Living Wage
to commiserate over rising visa fees
and the hometowns we hardly see.
We built a home
the only way we could in this city.
And the theatre, like all my homes,
It was conditional
It was dismissive
It was transitory.
Migrant Writing 