Underground car parks, particularly those under any form of estate, seem inherently scary. Is this because of their nature; dark, often run-down, stinking, misused - or is it more our ingrained fears, fed by a constant stream of Police dramas and drug stories sold to us as entertainment, where feral gangs of violent youths lurk in every shadow? Whatever you want to believe, there is one thing for sure, these places are great hideouts. In fact, the worse they are, the more dodgy or dangerous a place is perceived, the better it is for being unnoticed within.
So, this is where I made my home for six weeks over a summer a few years ago. I’m not the kind you’d probably expect to squat, let alone in a garage, but circumstance had taken its toll on my ability to see things clearly and act rationally. I was stupefyingly anxious, having anxiety dreams ( when I could sleep ) and waking in pools of sweat, dreading the day ahead, praying for some apocalypse to befall humanity or existence itself to allow me to escape the constant gale of misery smashing into me and stripping me raw.
It came about after I had gone away for the weekend. This was something that was so important - originally so that I could calm down, decompress, re-adjust, put distance between the objects of my grief and try to rationalise a plan. This rarely happened - the longer my issues stuck to me, the less and less relief I could find by escaping them. As a matter of fact, it was getting to the point where being away was having a negative effect. But here I was, in London, Open House weekend. A tour of a revered social housing project. Feeling safe in a group, we descended to the garage level. With it being a beautiful sunny day above, light filtered through, forming highlights and deep shadows to give the place an almost positive feel. As the guide waffled on about ‘needs’, ‘design’, and ‘struggle’, I wandered off a little from the group, noticing the somewhat flimsy locks on some of the lock-up doors.
A plan was starting to take shape, when we went back into the community centre for a brief lecture and video - I started to take note of the residents hanging around. It was easy to spot them. They were firmly in two camps. The ‘do-gooders’ who were manning tea urns and giving out leaflets, and the founders, who had been there from day one and were here, now, for tea and anything they could get for free. If you were wondering, the open-dayers were obvious to spot from the rapt attention.
After an hour I had picked a few ‘targets’ and hung around for another lecture/video slot so that as they slipped out I could follow a few back to see which flats belonged to them. After I’d bagged five flat numbers, I sidled back down to the garages and found the respective garages. And there it was. Number 33. A simple padlock that I could probably break off with my hand - near rusted through, unused for years. I knocked on the metal garage door and a resounding echo, undisturbed by ‘hoarded stuff’ led me to my knees with my phone light on to peer into the very slight gap between door and floor. The garage was, indeed, empty.
I came back later that night with a new lock, a light and a few tools. Letting myself in (to my new ‘home’) with bolt cutters. A pair of snips and some gaffa tape allowed me to cut a small hole through which I could pass my new padlock from inside the garage and lock myself in. I figured it would look less suspicious this way were anyone to pass, or be bothered.
I stood in the darkness, my eyes adjusting, and unrolled my sleeping bag where I sat myself down facing the door. I was safe. The sense of relief and the weight off my shoulders were palpable.
Alexandra Road Estate, London. 2019
Thanks for sharing, Richard.
great that you got #33