It’s 9:10 AM.
Just finished my Monday walk down Fulford Road.
Saints still sleeping. Birds still judging
Enter: blonde girl, wide-eyed, brimming with corporate optimism.
Her: “Do you work here? It’s my first day.”
Wow. I must look very comfortable and employed.
Sis, I haven’t been on a payroll since the Queen was alive.
I promise you... I don't work here.
Me: “Nope. I’m waiting. First day? Tell me more.”
Her: “Assistant Psychiatrist.”
Me: “Recent grad?”
Her: “Last year.”
We’re mid-banter when suddenly-
“Are you two together?”
Ah. Yorkshire hospitality. This has happened 3 times since landing here.
We exchange a glance, bonded forever by shared awkwardness.
I answer for us both.
"No, we’re not."
Ding.
Who could that be?
Pack yo shit and leave
Love the dramatics. 😂
So I walk. I pack.
I ask Dad for Help. He does. Thank you.
Mom asks if I need anything. Bless her.
City Let's
Them: “We have another place. £600 discount if you do your own housekeeping.”
Me: “Deal.”
Them: “Oops, typo. £400.”
Ahh. You forgot to hesitate. They think they've lowered the price too far.
Me: “£400 final offer?”
Them: “£500 discount?”
Me: Laughing. Deal. You drive a hard bargain. Just kidding. You typo.
It’s only money.
Paper and lies.
Let’s roll.
They introduce me to Marcus.
Semi-retired. Fully angel. Runs the Coppergate joint.
Here’s the Marcus monologue — part TED Talk, part Mr. Rogers reboot:
They said you wanted to clean yourself.
But I love cleaning.
I live to serve.
I won't charge the owner any extra.
Is it alright if I still come by Mondays after 9:30? I promise to knock.
Only had 30 minutes notice you were arriving, so I picked up the staples:
Milk. Sugar. Flour.
Some foreigners have different staples, but I Googled ‘how to feed a wandering American’ and this seemed safe.
Here’s the fire escape route.
Here's the Wi-Fi Password.
Here’s the Admin Wi-Fi Password.
Here's my phone number.
Its only a 20 minute walk for me if you need anything, so let me know.
Move anything you like.
I’m here. Cleaning, groceries, moral support. Change your bed sheets. You name it.
This is my life now. God gave me a mop and said ‘be the light.’”
Sir, I would die for you.
Recap of this blessed plot twist:
- Spending less (Thanks dad, my offer still stand to pay you back.)
- Bigger space
- Coat hangers. Actual, plural.
- A dresser I did not find on the street.
- A full kitchen that doesn’t double as a hallway
- Better location (closer to where God hands out croissants)
- Marcus, my unofficial emotional support butler
- 30 second walk to free breakfast at the Methodist church. Which, let’s be honest, is now my co-working space.
Moral of the story?
Sometimes the eviction text isn’t from the devil.
Sometimes it’s divine customer service.
Sometimes “pack your shit” is actually a prayer being answered.
With coat hangers.
Lately, something curious has been happening.
Three of the older ladies at the Methodist Church, previously wrapped in wool coats and stoicism, have started showing up to breakfast in full face.
Lipstick. Mascara. Eyeliner sharper than the wit of a northern gran.
And I can’t help but wonder:
Why now?
Did God whisper, “Slay, queen,” between hymns?
Is this a secret cabal of silver-haired sirens?
Or did my new trousers activate something dormant?
Today, one of them summons me.
"Come here."
She doesn’t ask. She commands.
I walk over, cautiously optimistic.
"Turn around."
A little weird, but okay. I comply.
She stares. Then:
"You’ve dropped your pocket."
I glance down instinctively.
Nothing there.
She grins.
"You best bend over and pick it up. What a beautiful ass!"
Ma’am.
This is a Methodist breakfast.
I whisper a small prayer
Obviously there was no self-satisfied grin on my face. No no. Not me.
Because if I have half the audacity she does by age 70, I will be unstoppable, or in cuffs.
Questions for another day.
