Can’t Go Home Again

Last Sunday was the three-year anniversary of moving into my flat in Wapping, East London. In the thirteen years I’ve been in London, I lived in 5 places before my current abode. The lengthiest residence was 5.5 years in a converted church in Whitechapel, which is the longest I’ve lived anywhere after leaving my childhood home in 2002.

Steeple Court, formerly St. Bartholomew’s Church, Whitechapel, aka “The Church”. This was my home from 2014-2020. Pictured is my longest-standing flatmate Isha and I before we moved out in May 2020.

My time in “The Church” — November 2014 to May 2020 — was a particularly formative period. The start and end of my longest relationship to date, the cementing of my professional and social life in London, the communion and ecstasy of many, many, many parties. The Church held all of it: kitchen moments and bedroom conversations and so much music stored in its walls.

My pals Janet and Will, who I wrote about in April, met at one of the Church parties, and are still a couple. I’ve met people recently who know who I am because they attended a party I hosted there, even though we never interacted. The Church was a community hub; needless to say, I miss the social aspect of living there the most.

In the first two months of the pandemic, The Church became a de facto gathering place. Friends and I would sit in our front garden, when that was allowed, or I’d host a barbeque and pass them food between the railings. My favourite pandemic memories were the three or four times we’d have Friday drinks with our lovely neighbours. Alex, Z and Tabby were three thirtysomething women; Isha, Nathan and I were three thirtysomething guys. Two groups of flatmates sat in their adjacent gardens. Once it got dark, I’d convince them to sneak over and we'd have a secret dance party in my room. April and May 2020 was a weird time for everyone, but The Church was set apart, sturdy, safe. Our sanctuary.

In truth, we were ignoring the inevitable. Our flat in The Church had been sold in December 2019, so it was only a matter of time before we had to leave. The timing of our eviction was the worst possible: the end of May, 2020. Full pandemic period.

Moving anywhere, anytime is a big undertaking and a major life change. The only upside to being forced to move then was that I was furloughed from work, so I had ample time to sort through 5.5 years of stuff. Physically, logistically, spatially, it was a lot to deal with. Emotionally, it was much more.

This may sound trite, but dealing with my accumulations after 5.5 years in one place — not to mention getting rid of the mountains of crap left there from past flatmates — still stands as a significant achievement of mine. Perhaps I’m still sifting through my emotional baggage there.

Now, I love living alone, and I prefer living in Wapping over Whitechapel. I’m not prone to wistfulness, I don’t have many regrets, but I’m still a little sad about leaving The Church, 4.5 years later.

Am I sad because I don’t live there now? No.

Do I wish 2024 Josh was the same as 2014-2020 Josh? Absolutely not.

Would I relive that time, to repeat some of those experiences, if I somehow could? Possibly. Probably.

But I can’t go home again.

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