![]() ![]() The flat adjoined the recording studios of the then cutting-edge Virgin Records, and we often glimpsed large hairy men heaving equipment in and out of the windowless, colourfully muralled building. As it turned out, nothing came along to challenge our complacency, and before long we’d found a small basement to rent just off the bustling Goldhawk Road. It seems odd now to recall the carefree way we just turned up in the city that summer confident we’d be able to stay in one shared house or another until we found a suitable place of our own. A few years earlier, we’d both been part of a loose network of young, left-leaning, alternative types who lived in short-life housing around Ladbroke Grove and Hammersmith, and worked for charitable projects or campaign groups. Lorna and I had returned to London that summer (we’d been living in Cardiff), having secured new jobs in the capital, but no accommodation. My first novel, A Pale View of Hills, was being prepared for publication, but at that point I had no sensible reason to believe I had before me a life as a full‑time novelist. ![]() ![]() I began An Artist of the Floating World in September 1981, in a basement flat in Shepherd’s Bush, London. ![]()
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