I live in a minute flat.
It’s a studio and the main room is 13 feet and a bit by 11 feet and a bit. I have a bed and a chest of drawers, a large table that serves as a desk, with a large computer, a printer, two great big dictionaries, pens and papers, a filing tray, a clock, and stuff. I also have masses of books and smaller chest of drawers full of documents. And paintings and pictures, although I’ve kept one of the walls completely bare: I read somewhere, years ago, that it made a room look larger. Hmm… I don’t know, but it’s quite possible the room would feel even smaller if all four walls were somehow defined by pictures.
I also have a kitchen the size of a… kitchen cabinet; a bathroom that’s too big in comparison with everything else, and a narrow corridor that I couldn’t do without, since it contains half of my books, some of my clothes, boxes of stuff I shouldn’t be keeping, the cat’s litter tray, and a folding bicycle that’s never folded.
I was never meant to end up in that studio: it used to belong to my partner, but I sold the small flat I had in Notting Hill Gate just before they started shooting that film and then the big flat I bought in Shepherd’s Bush turned out to be … actually, you don’t want to know. It’s a really boring story.
Today, I would like to slap my flat. For being so tiny. For not being expandable (I don’t see why not). For not being up to the job of accommodating me, the cat and my belongings. I'm always very nice to my flat, but it's not that nice to me, and I resent it.