Three things are certain in life: death, taxes and black mould in the bathroom. The latter is something my ex-flatmate Alex and I argued about. The mould was growing and, despite my concerns that soon it would develop eyes and watch us while we showered, Alex was adamant we should leave it alone.
“The amount of money we give that useless landlord,” he insisted, “I am not spending a penny to fix what he should.”
“Please,” I implored. “I don’t work this hard so I can come home and have a physical reminder of how skint I am. I can’t look at it any more. It’s Dickensian!”
“Brexit Britain!” he fired back. “You’ll learn to love the mould soon enough. Think of it as a free bit of abstract art on the wall.”
But when I dream of a future abode adorned with art, I imagine something more like this three-bed flat. A Grade II-listed modernist classic with picture windows and huge open shelves, it comes with plenty of wall space for hanging art, and is housed in the same complex as the Barbican Art Centre in London. Here, popping to the shop would be an artistic adventure: crowds buzzing about the latest play or stealing a glimpse of an exhibition en route to the letterbox.
Sadly for me, the closest I get to an art collection is the work added to my flat last week: a giant penis spray-painted on the garden wall.
