Buckminster Fuller, or Bucky to the few, once asked his under
the wing compatriot of architecture, how much does your building way? Mr Foster
was duly stumped by the question, but with his much envied handle on the
profession he commands, within a day he was able to answer.
As an employee of Foster and Partners, I live and work in
the shadow of the companies’ commander and chief with the aspiration to be as
dedicated, as skilful, as phantasmagorical as he is. But after watching the
film of which is entitled by the aforementioned question, I was able to answer
in seconds out stripping my hero in his ability to answer so promptly. (Below is me trying to be him...poorly)
The answer was zero, the building weighs nothing because it
simply does not exist. I haven’t a house to call me own, nor a rented place
that I would regard as home. I’m in a state of limbo with little in the way of
a positive and stable direction. With the step into the wider world from the
general safety of a life of study, the requirements of moving out, finding a
job, and learning the trade in the workplace is a reality for most. But London
is starting to bring up some rather challenging hurdles, ones which I’m
stunningly tripping over on a regular basis.
The cost of rail travel is constant metro daily number to be
brought up by journalists, bloggers and commentators a like. The draining
plight of the commuter, the unacceptable standards of morning rush hour, and
the increasing cost to endure these daily pleasures. But it is the housing of
these people that is most troubling.
Whilst the cost of travel is increasing, it is the cost of
housing that is kicking me in the face, hard, over and over again, right in the
face, in the nose, stamping all over it. My quest these past few months has
been turned to the location of suitable accommodation where I can work rest and
play, and have a couple of pennies left over for a near frozen pint of Irelands
finest, a packed of Rolos, and a vegetable samosa form the those ‘local’ shops
that frequent our underground stations.
But as simple as the desire for adequate accommodation at a
fair price might be, the staggering rise in rented accommodation is frightful.
But worse than the cost of spare rooms where you may have to remove your
lifestyle from a selection of luxuries, are the spaces where the less fortunate
find themselves. During my hours flicking from page to page of hovel after
hovel, the reality of peoples living conditions in this ‘world leading’ city become
troubling rather than frustrating.
With rooms at £70 per that offer little more than a single bed, two stoves, a sink, one cupboard and a shared bathroom in an attic, I would
argue a case of there being something wrong. Now at this point I would love to
offer up a solution, a joyous revolution to the housing crisis that is seeping
into the city. Alas, I have nothing…
… and with all things written on staggeringly large issues,
there a far wiser, smarter, and ingenious people to listen to, read about, and
question than the Saturday afternoon rattling’s of a confused boy.
