In an effort to preserve memories as I approach the big Five Oh, I am writing things down, starting with some reminisces about my London years.

For most of the four years I lived and worked in the UK – an eventful period in my life stretching from July 2000 to September 2004 – I rented a room in a flat above busy Brent Street in Hendon, a somewhat grubby, but mostly affluent suburb near the top of the Northern Line, just two stops from the heart of Jewish London, Golders Green.

The flat was on the third floor of a red brick corner building that housed Harold Schogger’s Bridge Club on the second floor and a late night kebab shop on the ground floor. This I patronised rather frequently, especially after over-indulging in the strong weed that was being passed around upstairs.

The inconspicuous entrance to the flat was at the rear of the building partially hidden by a car park. You climbed a flight of stairs past the bridge club entrance, which would be crowded at times with chain-smoking bridge players, and then up another flight to the front door to our flat.

Harold Schogger, a short, cheerful chap with a mop of curly hair and glasses, who spoke in a middle class London accent, was also our landlord. He came round from time to time to do small maintenance jobs and collect our rent cheques, but otherwise we seldom saw him.

As I remember it, the flat had a long passageway, off which jutted first a tiny toilet to the left and then to the right a large, not too unpleasant living room furnished with a comfy blue couch, red carpet, boxy television with Sky Box on top and small dining table in the far corner.

Moving back down the passage to the left was a narrow rather dreary kitchen with a window that looked down into an inner well of pigeon crap, used cutlery and discarded junk. Further down to the left was small bathroom with shower and basin which I used every day for almost four years yet can barely remember it. (I did shower regularly I promise! ) Then there were four bedrooms, the last at the end of an L shape as the passageway made a right turn.

My bedroom was in the farthest left corner of the flat with a window that opened up over the busy high street. There was an array of metal spikes outside designed to keep the pigeons away, while inside I had a single bed against one wall and a desk against the other. Presumably there was a cupboard, but I can’t remember. Like the rest of the flat, my room was rather grubby, exuding the sometimes pungent smells of bachelorhood.

My first flatmates were two fellow Jews, Andy and Dave, who hailed from Rochdale near Manchester and a mysterious, but friendly, tall, dark-skinned Israeli called Sagi, who went he wasn’t bonking some hot babe loudly through the night, would invite me into his room, to watch a movie and get completely stoned on his couch. It was strong marijuana and I can’t recall the titles of any movies we watched or if we had any conversations. But I did enjoy getting high in his room, and deeply appreciated his hospitality.

Andy, who was bearded and plumpish, and Dave, who was clean shaven a with wide-eyed look about him and mad love of Rochdale FC, were mostly to be found in the evening plonked on the blue living room couch, rolling a joint, eating greasy food and scrolling through endless channels on Sky TV. The joint was freely passed around, and I soon find myself getting “nicely toasted” on the couch as the night wore on. They were both nice guys, intelligent and far more worldly than me. They loved football and smoking dope. Most importantly, they were happy to have vagabond like me for a flat mate.

I moved into the Hendon flat after being rejected for about half a dozen other places around Golders Green that were advertised in that local free weekly working holidaymaker magazines like TNT. Before that, I ‘dossed’ in the Golders Green laundry of my best mate Jason and his South African friends’ house on Ridge Hill Road. I remember the oft-repeated mantra “Dosses have no rights” but everyone was very nice and I enjoyed the few months I lived there. I slept on a mattress propped up next to the washing machine in the laundry (which was behind the kitchen). Every night, the washing machine’s gentle rumblings and tumblings would lull me – like the sounds of a train’s wheels – to sleep (This tale of my “early days” in London was repeated often for tragi-comedic effect).

Eager for a hovel of my own, and after being rejected for numerous other places, I was delighted to have found this somewhat squalid little space in Hendon and unpretentious and friendly roommates always happy to pass the joint around.

I lived in that flat for almost four years, catching the Northern Line tube at Hendon Central into the West End, getting off most of the time at Tottenham Court Road Station, and emerging from that warren of tunnels and escalators into the stampede of humanity that was Oxford Street.

Here I would make my way towards Soho and the Wardour Street offices of a Dutch publishing company called VNU, where I worked as a journalist for Accountancy Age a weekly publication for accountants in the UK.

As dull as that may sound, those four years at Accountancy Age were extremely happy ones for me. I made some brilliant friends, discovered local Soho pubs like the John Snow and Star & Garter (this was at a time, when going to the pub for a pint at noon meant the end of the working day), bookshops, cafes and frequently spotted celebrities walking down its lanes and alleyways.

Paid a meagre wage (it improved over time) my most popular lunch time meal was a jacket potato with baked beans and cheese which cost me £2.50, a sandwich, drink and crisps deal from Boots or the more upmarket Pret a Manger franchise across from my office (where I once spotted Ewen McGregor in his bike leathers chomping on a coronation chicken sandwich).

Once a week Pizza Hut on Oxford Road had an all-you-can-eat special which I took full advantage of. Very occasionally, I got to sample some of London’s famous restaurants and upmarket bars, usually when work or someone else was paying.

Many summer lunchtimes were spent in bohemian Soho Square Gardens, a small oasis of green surrounded by film studio offices and book publishing houses like Bloomsbury (publisher of the Harry Potter series) where the pungent aroma of marijuana hovering above on summer days. Occasionally I’d wonder down to Trafalgar Square and browse a room or two at the National Gallery during my lunch break.

Though Soho was packed with sex shops and other naughty establishments, I never ventured into any of them (OK, maybe once or twice) mostly out of fear of being spotted by my work colleagues, or even worse bumping into them. But I did love to browse the huge Borders bookstore on Charing Cross Road and of course, that pantheon to books, Foyles.

But, I digress.

Regardless of how I spent my working day, more often than not it ended with an evening or late night Tube ride up the Northern Line back to Hendon Central and 5-10 min walk back to my flat above the kebab shop and Harold Schogger’s Bridge Club.

Over the near four years I Iived there, a lot of people came and went, some of whom like Andy, Dave and Sagi I remember clearly, other just blurred faces and forgotten names

There was an obnoxious and uppity Jewish bloke (maybe Aaron) who I got into an argument with (possibly over Israeli politics) and who left after he got engaged. There was also a quite attractive Israeli whom came with me on my yearly sojourn to the Edinburgh Festival. I can picture here clearly – pretty face, beauty mark, longish hair – but for the life of me cannot remember her name. I am sure it started with an “M”. Perhaps it will magically pop into my head one day. We shared digs at the festival, but my misguided ideas of romance, were cruelly rebuffed on the first night.

Then there was Joe, a skinny, bespectacled bicycle-riding school teacher’s assistant with penchant for A-class drugs (opium, cocaine) and who was regularly visited by his dealer, a long bearded chap of Indian origin. Joe was also buying up property, providing regular updates of his acquisitions of London terraces. How he did all this – he was I guess one of these high-functioning drug addicts -I have no idea, but he was certainly highly intelligent, perhaps even genius level. He was also exceedingly nice and incredibly smart. If he’s not dead now (killed in some horrible cycling accident) I suspect Joe must be very wealthy.

I stayed in touch with lovely Jacqui (her surname was Langlois) for a long time after I left London, and we caught up when I came back for a holiday in 2005. She was quite a lot older than us (maybe in her 40s back then) and owned a flat in Brighton. She was very warm and sweet with a high-pitched sing-song voice. She worked in social services I think, but had wide-ranging interests including traditional Klezmer music. I remember her practicing her violin in her room. Perhaps she has improved by now.

On at least one occasion, Jacqui was propositioned by one of the old chain-smoking bridge players that we regularly passed on the way to our flat, and while she was certainly in the market for a romantic partner, it was definitely not to be one of the geriatric card sharks . I remember she moved into Joe’s room when he left, and recall quite clearly the utter chaotic mess Joe left it in, papers and crap everywhere. It was so bad, that it reduced Jacqui to tears. We had lots of great chats on the couch in our lounge, and I invited her into my wider circle of friends and family. She was a dear, close friend for a while, one of those people that come into your life and leave a mark. I’ve often tried to look her up online, but cannot find anything (Jacqui, if by some miracle you discover this, get in touch!) and suspect she has avoided social media.

There were another Israeli girl I flat-shared with. Her name was Hila, she was short and cute. Hila worked crazy hours at one of the big department stores in the West End. She left late in the afternoon or early evening and returned in the early morning when the rest of us were waking. When she wasn’t working, we’d hang out. For a while we kept in touch after I moved to Australia, but sadly I have lost all trace of her.

I simply can never forget vivacious Debbie, from Cape Town. Cute, with curly blonde hair, Debbie aspired to be a singer and entertainer. She was a bit larger than life and had a warm and outgoing nature.

On one occasion I remember quite vividly she invited us to see her sing at the pub down the road. It was a real dive, dark and gloomy, but Debbie saw an opportunity to perform for an audience and she did not disappoint, belting out songs and playing her electric keyboard. She certainly was not shy, nor did it bother her the curious looks she got from the old pensioners in the crowd, sitting perplexed, whilst sipping their pints.

That covers just about everyone I can remember sharing the flat in Hendon above the kebab shop and Harold Schogger’s Bridge Club.

I certainly lived with an eclectic and interesting bunch of people, some real characters during what accounted for most of my time in London.

Then around December 2003, someone moved out of the house share up the road in Golders Green (where I had first stayed in the laundry as a dosser) and I grabbed my chance to move into a bigger room with my good friends Jason, Claire and Colette, and share the luxury of a garden.

The laundry was still there behind the kitchen, but my room was upstairs overlooking the road and those big semi-detached houses that lined the street on either side.

I’d literally moved up in the world. I was a vagabond no more.