HOUSE OF TOUCHARD R.I.P So yesterday was it. The final end. Surrounded by white washed walls, and white Box Heads, the scene resembled some sort of surreal bleached nightmare - no more posters, no more photos, no more clutter. Faithful readers will know that for the last year, I've been residing in Touchard House, Old Street, London. But yesterday, I handed back the keys to my lovely abode. Samantha, who has live with Steph and I since I clothes lined her to freedom from the clutches of Boots Liverpool Street, resided in our lavatories in both Cleeve and Touchard Houses. Only now, neither of us could spare her the space at our homes - so she ended up in the gutter - Oh Samantha, how the mighty have fallen! There was also not enough time for me to sort out how I was transporting the last three Box Heads home, so they too ended up on the rubbish heap - oh the history, if only any passing bin man knew their relevance! Frank, Steph and I spent the morning polishing the floors (on the landlords orders) to ensure we got our deposits back. I am now, officially, a homeless London resident. Joy! Touchard was probably the best flat I lived in during my time as a student in London. Big rooms, balcony (it was a balcony!) and the most wonderful views over the City (one side): ...and Hoxton (the other side): These pictures show the arctic conditions that our fridge had created to keep our milk and cheese nice and cool: This is the pile of ice that I managed to hack away whilst I cleaned it: And this is the life form which appeared to be growing and multiplying floating in a pool of stagnant water at the bottom of the fridge: Yum. My bedroom (below) was more like a dumping ground at the end.

Steph and me, looking very dapper just before our graduation.

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