Tales of the City 04 - Babycakes

and slipped it into an obstinate lock, he was engulfed in darkness so complete that he thought for a moment he’d gone blind.
The light switch. Of course. It was on a timer. He recalled this sensible oddity of British engineering from his last visit. It had charmed him at the time, like electric towel warmers and teakettles that shut off automatically as soon as they whistled.
He turned the knob and pushed against the door with his shoulder, causing light to spill into the corridor from Simon’s flat. A vile odor, like the halitosis of an old dog, rolled over him in waves. He held his breath and lunged for the nearest window, cracking it enough to let in a gush of rain-scented air.
As Simon had promised, the living room had fourteen-foot ceilings, which did lend it a certain aura of seedy elegance. Tatty was the word he had used, and that was a fair enough description for the lumpy, junkshop furniture grouped around the room’s nonfunctioning fireplace. The pale green walls were dotted with tin engravings from Victorian times, the only visible concession to interior decoration. Simon’s stereo and a stack of records completed the grim tableau.
Michael followed a narrow hallway in search of the bedroom. Once there, he dropped his suitcase and sank numbly to the edge of the bed, ordering himself not to jump to conclusions. He was bone tired from the ten-hour flight, so his mounting despair could well be a function of fatigue, not to mention the airlines Danish that flopped about in his stomach like a dying rodent.
It was noon now, he supposed. What he needed was a hot bath and a good sleep. When he awoke, the old wonderment would be back again, bringing with it his invaluable capacity for finding quaintness in hardship. What had he expected, anyway? Some sanitized, Disney-like version of English charm?
Yes, he decided, when he saw the bathroom. He had expected something along the lines of the cozy town house in 101 Dalmatians. Something with roses in the garden and mellow paneling and— yes, goddamnit—towel warmers in the bathroom. What he found instead was a cramped room smelling of stale pee and painted to simulate blue sky and clouds. Like the ceiling of an organic bakery in Berkeley.
The tub had legs, which scored a few points for quaintness, but the hot water ran out as soon as it reached the top of his knees. He lay there immobile, racked with disillusionment, and chastised himself for ever agreeing to swap apartments with a heterosexual he didn’t know.
Moments later, he collapsed into bed, but he didn’t fall asleep for at least an hour. As he finally drifted off, he had a vague impression of rain pounding on the packed earth of his “garden” and another, more rhythmic sound. Was it … drums?
It was dark when he awoke. He stumbled about in search of a light switch, then went into the kitchen to take stock of the stuff he would need. There was no food, of course—except for some moldy noodles and a can of herring—and eating utensils were in sparse supply.
For starters, he would buy some cereal and milk, some bread and peanut butter. But that would be tomorrow. Tonight, he would find a neighborhood pub that served Scotch eggs and Cornish pasties and get just as shit-faced as the situation required.
Returning to the bedroom, he decided to make things official by unpacking his suitcase. He was almost done when he remembered the note from Simon stashed in the side pocket. He sat down on the bed and read it:
Michael—
I thought you might be able to use a few words of advice about the many enigmas of 44 Colville Crescent: The hot water (or lack thereof) is a bit of a nuisance, I’m afraid. You’ll find the tank in the nook between the lav and the kitchen, should you have any serious problems with it. (Truly serious problems should be referred to Mr. Nigel Pearl, a plumber in Shepherd’s Bush. His number is posted on the door of the fridge.)
The automatic turn-off whatsit on the stereo does not turn off automatically. The central heating has been shut off for the season; I doubt you’ll need it. There’s an extra duvet in the bottom drawer of the cupboard in the bedroom. The bed, as you must have noticed by now, is propped up at one corner by my vast collection of Tatlers, which is quite the best place for them to be.
Foe basic, foodstuffs, I recommend Europa foods in Notting Hill Gate. For toiletries, try Boots the Chemist (a “drug store” in your quaint colonial parlance). For real drugs, try