Always Read the Label Chapter 7 13th Floor Elevator

I still can't get the hang of these maps. The platforms say north, south, east or west bound. I usually want to go to the right or the left, maybe up or down. They're all different colours too, so I have to play dot to dot and trace where I want to be a few times before committing to a carriage filled with the local brand of silent tolerance and indifference. All hidden behind masking newspapers which occasionally jerk to reveal the downward looking faces that gently nod to the movement. It's only 3 stops but I wish I had something to read apart from the rectangular adverts, hand-altered with chewing gum stuck in inappropriate places, above everyone's heads. After this stop a quick change so I start to gather my rucksack into a moveable position. Still not comfortable with how quickly those doors close or how many other people have to be navigated to get off the train.

I dodge a few other lost travellers as they pause to look for confirmation of where they're heading. I also get dodged by those I've inconvenienced by not knowing my exact, immediate route to the next platform. There's no tutting, but it's not far off. It's such a quicker pace around here. No time to smile or just get there. Anyway it's the overground now, the one without endless dirty tunnels, to complete the journey.

My flatmate is obviously in, as the unfamiliar music he's playing can be heard as the lift opens onto the empty corridor it's echoing around. Lined left and right with doors of the same colour blue, the only difference is the numbers, if they still remain attached, and the level of peeling paint. Our door, which also has a piece of paper pinned to it, is bang opposite the lift, about 4 steps gets you to where a welcome mat should be. I put the key into the lock and walk into what has become home sweet home, dragging the rucksack I had to take off to fit in the lift. Simon's door is shut but the music means he's obviously awake. Or deaf. I head straight into my identical room and put the rucksack onto the mattress by the window. I have to unpack the latest batch of stuff I've dragged down from home on the National Express. Some warm clothes, a few old pans and cutlery have taken up most of the room in the bag. They'll be put to good use cooking stuff that needs more than one pot and can now be eaten with forks, rather than one of the two spoons and a knife, mainly used for buttering, or rather margarine-ing, we already have. I don't bother to show these to Simon before putting them in one of the several unused drawers as he has no use for such items with his diet of super-noodles and biscuits. That's more or less what I know about Simon.

I remember I spent the journey back in conflict about why I'd moved away versus why I couldn't stay. I never got off the coach and turned around so someone must have won. When I look in the fridge I immediately wish I'd had a different result. I can just make out a carton of milk, as the light doesn't work, which I shake to find is nearly drained and sitting alone. It'll stretch to a quick cup of tea before it's off to the shops. If we had a landlord I'd make a note to complain. There's too few biscuits in Simon's pack, badly hidden in the equally empty cupboard, to even steal one to have with the tea. Even boiled the water tastes different. But its hot and it serves its purpose.

Down the lift I go and out from the grim artificial light to the grim natural light of outside, taking the dried mud path that leads across the grass and directly to the zebra crossing instead of around the unmown grass areas. There's three other blocks that stand looking at each other on the estate. All the same in every way: 20 floors, 4 flats on each, with the same layout rotated 90 degrees throughout. Two bedrooms, a front room with useless for anything but hot knives electric bar fire, a kitchen, bathroom and toilet. The only difference for each block is the depressingly hopeful name it's been given. Ours is Hope Point. Still it's luxury compared to some of the estates I've been past on my wanders around here. And there's a huge park, Victoria, just off to the left. The blocks are all a dirty yellow stone colour with royal blue paint on any other material that takes the chance to occur. When I got talking to someone who lived in one of the other blocks in the local pub, Pride Point since you ask, he told me the flats were an existing design bought by the council to keep the costs down. The only problem was they had been designed for desert areas, so were made to soak up all the heat of the day and keep the occupants cool at night. From what I've seen, this is not the sort of weather you usually find round here. But it explains why there's no radiators in the flats, just a fan to blow air around. The locals obviously thought this strange too, as they've deserted in droves to leave the whole estate classified as 'hard to let' which translates as 'available to squatters and students'.

I found out how to become the former from a guy who'd lived two floor below us on the 11th floor for the past 3 years, without receiving as much as a letter form the council. An older Irish guy, Leo, he reminded me of Vinny Riley, who I used to work for. Vinny actually became emotional when I told him I was off to seek my fortune elsewhere, asking if 'it was more money you want, Duke?'. Leo seems to know everyone. He's known as Leo Leo as he repeats everything you say. 'So you need somewhere to live then? So you need somewhere to live then?' was his first question or questions to me. 'Do you know about squatting? Do you know about squatting?' where his second or third. I was sat in his kitchen while he asked me these questions and explained what to do. As I waited for him to tell me what to do twice, I noticed every surface was covered in piles of clothes, even the sink had a its own pile and in the washing machine was another – not a load that had just been washed, but a neatly stacked pile that had been ironed. Eventually I had to ask Leo Leo about this. 'I never throw anything away. Never throw anything away' were his replies. On the way out after copying the legal notice to pin to the door, I saw the piles also lined his corridor on either side, right up to the front door. We went upstairs and it took less than five minutes to get into an empty flat and not a single door in the corridor opened while this was going on. A bit of fixing the lock and pinning up the notice, while Leo Leo grabbed a few stray items of dusty clothes from inside, and we were set.

For the shopping I need to walk down the road to the nearest minimarket, which is called Rainbow and a bit different from Asda or Tesco. For a start I don't know what half the fruit and veg on display is and can't read the signs that probably give this information, but not in English. I don't intend coming back here before the weekend so grab a basket by the door and start to carefully build up a weeks worth of stuff. Pitta bread, beans (x2), oranges, bananas, potatoes, carrots, onions, milk and a tin of corned beef 'cos it's on offer. The change from the fiver stretches to cover 10 fags and some small blue rizla which are bought more in hope than to be put into use as I've not met anyone yet to get some hash from. I've never been so skint, even though I've been doing the odd day on a site in the City. It's just that it costs a fortune every time you leave the house. And there's nobody else filling the cupboards now. I've got a bit saved up, but it won't last more than a few months at this rate.

Simon jumps out as I set the carrier bag down in the kitchen, the usual bundle of energy with no outlet to burn it off.
'Wicked. Provisions. What we got then?' Ever the enthusiastic communal liver until its his turn to share the burden. Not a lot lights up his face as i unpack, but I'm safe with the corned beef as he's a sworn vegetarian. Except with beef flavoured super-noodles I've already discovered, cos they don't contain any meat. I offer to toast some pitta to celebrate my return and ask what he's been up to.
'My brother came down and we went to a mega party in Camden. Well wicked'.
Both the words wicked and mega are a bit new and foreign tasting in my mouth, but I guess I'll have to master this strange tongue eventually. I spread some marmite on the bread and we chew it steadily in the front room while I tell Simon about where I've been.

He's a year or two younger than me and probably the skinniest bloke I've ever met. He still carries a bit of the punk look about him but with a clean edge. A laundered punk, who believes in anarchy and fresh underwear. I met him in the only pub around here, the Unicorn, a single storey building with steel grilles on all the windows, which is just behind the furthest block. He knew there were squats ripe for picking round here and just turned up with all his possessions in a rucksack, bumping into me a few days after I'd got into the flat. I was glad to get some company and the chance to expand the number of people I knew nearby to four. Five if you count Leo Leo twice. We've only sat down chatting a few times and he seems alright, in the same boat as me - realising it was time to move on from his home town, Ramsgate wherever that is, and only being able to do this by selecting the cheapest possible options. Squatting, National Express, cheap food, staying in most nights, not buying a ticket for the tube, working cash in hand; all the things you don't see about London on the telly. Or expect the Queen to be doing on it's gold paved streets.

He drifts back to his music and I end up lost in looking out from the window. Up here you can see, just behind all the other perceived highrise lowlife, the city and all the towers that look like they're actually made to last and get cared for. Cranes sit in between some of them working through the afternoon to put up even more of these shiny badges of success – occupied by people not forced down the economy route. From up here I can also see everyone entering the estate from the main road, and round the other side I can see anyone heading down from the train station. There's no regular hours around here, so its a constant trickle in and out from both directions. Some head straight into the blocks to be whisked up to their own space, but others head for the pub, newsagent, chippy or bakers, which I've discovered only sells white sliced bread and doughnuts. No one hangs about though. The whole estate is built to get you dispersed as soon as you arrive. No benches, no ball games, no chatting, no hellos, no gathering to complain. I don't think I expected to find the promised land, but this is gonna be a bit more of a challenge than I thought.