[漂在伦敦的日子]在伦敦的日子里

　　初次来到伦敦，初进一所名校，他没有钱，没有住所，没有朋友，生活如一团乱麻。但艰难的生活让他学到了人生重要的一课，他渐渐学会如何在这个大城市中生存下去……　　I was in trouble. It was one of those deep underground stations with a passenger lift, the kind that used to have a booth inside for the guard. I flashed my pass to the man, and he frowned. “Show me that picture again,” he said. I did. He frowned harder. “They’re looking for that guy. They’re looking for you.” He pointed, glared, and then broke into a huge smile. But the fear had taken hold, a new, plunging, suffocating feeling I was becoming familiar with. The lift bumped to a stop at street level, and I threw myself out into the daylight. London was killing me.
　　This was the early autumn of 1985, and I’d just taken up a place at Chelsea College of Art. It was a big deal for Mabel Fletcher Technical College in Liverpool, where I’d studied my foundation course, and an even bigger one for my family and friends. Nobody had been anywhere near higher education or knew what to expect: least of all2) me, as it turned out. A few weeks in and I found myself sleeping on a dining table, armed with a saucepan, in a dank basement flat.
　　Because I had no idea what a hall of residence was, and because I was—and still am—a gifted procrastinator3), I’d given scant thought to the practicalities of living in London on a grant4). I showed up at Chelsea on the first day of term with a suitcase, and a copy of Loot. I didn’t know anybody in London, not a soul. I didn’t get London. An innocent abroad. A dickhead5). Take your pick.
　　It was the worst possible start to a new life because, instead of getting to know my cool and confident fellow students, or making my mark6) with our esteemed painting tutors, I was flailing7) around trying to gain a toehold8) in the city. For the first few months I was homeless, of no fixed abode9), living out of that suitcase10). Some of my fellow students were kind enough to let me flop11) on their sofas and floors; I bunked12) into halls, even resorting to sleeping in cold enamel13) baths when I couldn’t find anyone to let me into a room; one of those esteemed painting tutors took pity and let me stay with him and his family for a week.
　　When I found a basement flat in Notting Hill, I thought I’d cracked it. The landlord was eccentric: he kept the place subfusc14), drank all day dressed in his black silk kimono15), and seemed trapped in the 1960s. All very Performance, and I could handle that. But my bed consisted of a seething, mycotoxic16) mattress on the floor, there were no locks on the doors, and the landlord soon came snooping17) around, making excuses as to why he needed to gain entry. After a week of this, I did a runner18) one morning, caught the first Circle Line train, and sat orbiting London until everywhere began to open for the day.