Until recently I enjoyed a 27 year contented existence in suburban Cardiff. I've now decamped to densest bed-sit land. To provide the area with a modicum of anonymity my pad is about equidistant between The Locomotive and The Claude. It is that part of Roath that will be forever Bangladesh, Iran, Estonia, Somalia: a latter day Ellis Island. The contrast between my new "manor" and the leafy glades of suburbia are stark and on many levels. In the suburbs people practise a planned economy and lifestyle. The annual holiday and the triennial car change are budgeted well in advance. Most don't just know where they are now but where they plan to be in five years time. The rituals that are the essence of organised family life are community wide, such as the weekend shop at Tescos, trips to B & Q on the bank holiday, and the Sunday flash floods through the estate as all the dads hose down the Focus and Mondeos while Mum mows the lawn as the veg simmers.
The people of bed-sit land have, in contrast, a philosophy of instant gratification. The first thing I noticed was the large number carrying a "must be seen with" accessory much like Prada or Gucci handbag in more genteel society. This is a can of lager and the favoured designer label is Stella Artois. I witness this from dawn to dusk. Perhaps it has something to with street credibility of the local sub-culture. As a grey haired man walked toward me with his dog at 8.00 o'clock one morning I expected a nod of mutual recognition of old school values. As he passed he mumbled some incoherent verbiage as his dilated pupils stared vacantly over my shoulder into infinity. He was carrying a can of White Lightening.
Booze plays an important role in this neck of the woods and the area is full of party animals. Recently in the honeycombed house I share with many others a party was not so much thrown as catapulted. Originally a band was booked. A rock band in the kitchen!! It's just like the Young Ones. However this didn't materialise but a DJ turned up with his twin deck plus a couple of huge speakers and blasted away as the booze flowed. Stumbling over the bodies the next morning with the intent of breakfasting I was asked if wanted a drink. Expecting a coffee a can of Kronenbourg was thrust into my hand. As I discarded it I noticed a couple of almost empty bottles absinthe. This is the fuel that ignited van Gogh's tortured imagination and probably tipped him over the edge. One of my housemates took a swig. He would have put it on his corn flakes if he could find them.
A few days ago a group of young women were sat on the wall below me each drinking from the requisite accessory having a drink fuelled conversation full of rancour. They used expletives between every syllable and made Billy Connolly sound like the Archbishop of Canterbury. The cacophony of noise in the area is as loud as it wide ranging. Redevelopment and refurbishment is a constant and the sound of drilling and hammering is unrelenting. To ensure the dulcet tones of DJ Jo Whiley can be heard above the din, the builders crank up the volume to number eleven and it's not just this ghetto that gets blasted because the Arctic Monkeys can be heard as far as Gabalfa. A week ago my attention was distracted by a mantra being shouted in a ritualistic repetitive manner. An Islamic neighbour was systematically marching up and down the street stopping ever 6 paces or so where he stood to rigid attention stared wild eyed at the sky and bellowed the same phrase over and over again like pre programmed Gatling gun. We also seem to have the noisiest and most aggressive seagulls in town. Often I've had to fend off these belligerent dive bombing air raids with my umbrella, looking like a cross between Zorro and the man from the Pru.
Complaints have appeared in the local press regarding students leaving piles of rubbish behind. Our road is a residential landfill site. Back in suburbia neat piles appear once a week all washed out and segregated into the requisite bags. Back in God's very little green acre every day is bin day and no such refuse apartheid exists. Many of the tiny front "gardens" are covered in debris, mattresses, settees and the contents of gutted houses. There's a fridge freezer a few doors down that's been there so long a preservation order has been slapped on it. I could have sworn I saw some Japanese tourists in front of it with their archetypal pose of a double handed victory salute. To add to this you continually have to play hopscotch around discarded takeaways some of which have experienced a short period of ingestion having had a fleeting acquaintance with the owner's stomach.
When I crossed town I experienced my own bonfire of the vanities. Despite what seems like a diatribe against my new neighbourhood I have adapted to this new bohemian existence. Many of my adopted community are itinerants, such as students of various nationalities, people in low paid jobs on the first rung of the employment ladder along with those creating their first foothold in a new country and culture. The area proves the adage that the people who have the least tend to give the most. This community seems totally unfazed by the noise, clutter, and inibriety of the area and for the most part are helpful, cheerful and friendly. I prefer the extremes of the area compared to the predicable blandness of suburbia, although I do miss the sedating effects of chilled Chablis and a trickling water feature in a quiet suburban garden. Comparing the two communities using the analogy of colour I would describe suburbia as light beige and my new rather bohemian experience as a canvas created by Jackson Pollock on a Psychedelic trip. I'll drink to that. Where's my tinnie?