Well, call me Lucy Honeychurch

So, happily, I find myself torn. Do I go for the very clean and well-furnished place, in the bad neighborhood, closer to the center of town, with one older flatmate who is never ever there? Or do I go for the grungier place, in the better neighborhood, further from the center of town, with three flatmates my age, two of whom are dancers? The latter is more than £100 cheaper a month. The answer is clear; I should choose the sensible option. But which one is sensible? The nice place, or the nice neighborhood? I should also choose the one that will not drive me insane. But would I be driven more insane by dancers, or by living alone? Loyal readers of Greg's London Ramblings, speak now or forever hold your peace.

By the way, I suddenly realized that there's no way I could live in industrial loft space. I'm too old, yeah?

Drinks with T was terrific. He's fun and funny and opinionated and plugged into, well, the scene I'm looking for. We went to a new bar called Trash Palace which was fun, but, well, a trifle ersatz, if you know what I mean -- like some sitcom-set version of a queer dance party. And too brightly lit. But there was some eye candy, and some good music. When we left, the DJ was playing nursery rhymes, not even mixed up with anything. Just "This onld man, he played one." Hot.

Thanks to all of you who sent Birthday greetings. I had one glass of whiskey in the brightly-lit Cambridge gay bar with H, then went home to work on my Smith/Mt. Holyoke job application. Sigh.