17.48pm:  57 Shrubland Road, E8, Dalston

Rode straight past this place on the way to Clifton Grove. Backtracking south again down Queensbridge Road, and then right into Shrubland Road. A bit of traffic here. Kids playing with a ball across the road. A little girl with pig-tales, black frizzy hair, pink bands, blue school uniform. I don’t hear her approach me as I raise the digital camera and take a shot.

“Why you taking that picture of that house?”

I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure why I’m taking a picture of that house, of the other houses. I’m not even sure what the point of this exercise is. All I know is that the moment in which I leave each of the houses I live in, is a moment that holds a condensed multitude of options. It’s a moment when the cards are thrown into the air, they take some time to settle again, but once they do, that’s it, my life takes a new turn. The house I end up in changes everything, not least because it determines the people I will live with and come to know. These are liminal moments: each time I leave a home I walk out of the world I know and into chaos. I walk through the door of my known self, and out into a new, uncharted chapter in my life. At that moment anything is possible.

The houses I have lived in have informed every aspect of my life while I lived in those houses. It’s wrong to underestimate the influence of our homes. Perhaps, in trying to capture the houses I might be living in, I’m trying to capture that moment when the cards are beginning to fall, at the point when my life would have been different. A futile exercise, really.

A bit later, the little girl comes back and asks me to take a photo of her. Her straightforward request and healthy narcissism catch me by surprise. I should be photographing people, not the facades of buildings.

“Do you like it?” I ask, showing her the screen on my camera. She nods. “What’s your name?” I ask.

“Renetia.” A beautiful name. One I’ve never heard before.

Faint aeroplane noise. I still haven’t managed to get away from the flight paths.

I came to Shrubland Road on Friday the 30th of April at 8.30 pm, just before I went to meet Craig in Elwin Street. On the phone I’d spoken to Adam, who was an architect. He told me there were four men living in the house. I would be the only female. He spoke with a monotone voice, completely devoid of interest or hope, as though he knew there was no chance I’d come. As though he’d already spoken to hundreds of callers and he was resigned to the fact that they’d never find someone to occupy the room, and that there was no point in even trying anymore. Probably they had women in the house originally, but a woman moved out and a man moved in, and the ration of men to women kept tilting towards the men’s side, until the last woman moved out and that was it, no woman would ever move in again, and Adam knew it. Something perverse made me resist my inclinations to cancel the meeting. I’d started  something, and I didn’t want to give in to my prejudices. It wasn’t a given that an all-male house was bad. I remember cycling here on the evening after the 10th anniversary of Critical Mass. It was already dark as I cycled down Queensbridge Road and I remember thinking that the area seemed dodgier than other neighbourhoods I had explored. I was beginning to get cold feet. But I kept cycling.

Shrubland Road was deserted. Number 57 was an imposing terrace, with stairs leading up to the front door. I climbed the stairs and rang the doorbell. A man answered the door. He looked around forty years old. A man, not a boy. It was too late to turn around.

I followed him inside. Today, I don’t remember the bedroom he must have shown me. I remember that the living room and kitchen were in the basement. The lighting was dim. There was the smell of frying fish and the television was on. Another man and a woman were sitting on a couch watching the screen. “She doesn’t live here,” said Adam. I could almost hear the masochistic satisfaction in his voice.

I didn’t ask my standard questions. I didn’t ask anything, I just glanced around stupidly, remembering that ad about the two women who were looking for a housemate who wouldn’t kill them in their sleep.

“How long have you been here?” I managed to inquire.

“12 years.”

That’s a long time. “Well,” I said, cutting it short. “I’ll have a think about it and let you know.” We both knew I’d thought about it enough. The whole visit took about three minutes. It was a whirlwind tour. But I was busting to have a piss. I think he was surprised when I said, “May I use your bathroom?”

Sitting on the lavatory, I looked around me at all the men’s things, the razors, the shaving creams and hair gels, the toothbrushes and pastes, the mouthwashes, the combs and brushes and scissors and rubber ducks and lens liquids, the face creams and vitamins and deodorants and aftershaves. I took it all in. Then I pulled up my trousers, looked again at the razors lying around on a shelf above the sink, picked one up and put it in my pocket. It was so easy. Suddenly, I felt contempt for all these people who were so trusting, letting complete strangers roam their houses unaccompanied. I flushed the toilet and ran out of there.