A Micro-Flat, You Say?

Honey nut cornflakes and a banana.

I suppose I lived in a micro-flat once. It was in Place de Clichy, a stop-gap one summer between one flat and another. It had the world's tiniest bathroom, in which I had to keep my hands pinned firmly to my sides in order to turn around. Washing my hair was a challenge. And certainly there was no scope for cat swinging.

As I recall the potential for catering was pretty limited, too. I had a small fridge, and a hob ring -- perhaps two -- more-or-less on the sink, and I think possibly a microwave. The fridge hummed all night. And I had to hang my washing out my window to dry it. The wind whisked away a couple of pairs of my pants once and I had to despatch an obliging friend to rescue them (they were nice spotty ones!): they'd landed on top of a flat-roofed extension in the courtyard that I lacked the upper-body strength to haul myself on to.

I can't imagine paying £1 million to live there.