A lettings agent rang me yesterday, asking me to vouch for the character of my friend Anthony, who’s about to rent one of their properties. After informing her in no uncertain terms that Ant is shifty, lowlife scum who cannot be trusted not to lay waste to the fixtures and fittings, I sent him a message to convey an alarming fact that she managed to tease out of me: that we’ve known each other for 19 years. (That’s me and Ant, not me and the lettings agent.) Ant was surprised. We made plans for a 20th anniversary party for next year – that’s our China anniversary, Ant – at which point the vigorous and gruelling mental calculations caused me to dive for my 1997 diary, at which point I discovered that I’ve been living in this flat for exactly 10 years. 10 years tomorrow, in fact. That’s my Tin anniversary.

Gorgeous, isn’t it? I wish it looked like this now; sadly that annoying middle bank of 12 windows is in a hideous state of disrepair, with each of them threatening to work themselves lose from putty long since crumbled away, and decapitate an innocent postman – as the old Billy Joel song goes. Note the flat roof: never buy a property with a flat roof, especially if you’re living on the top floor, unless it’s cheap, in which case buy it straight away. The flat was sold to me and my ex-wife, Erika, by an estate agent by the name of Le’sa Hammond (face it, Lisa, your name is Lisa, alright? thanks.) The mortgage was arranged for us by a hefty financial adviser whose name I can’t remember, but she marked our first appointment by arriving at the Halifax’s offices, falling down a flight of stairs, screaming and crying in her suit’n’stilettos combo on a step at the bottom while the estate agents upstairs failed to stifle their giggles, and then tearfully recommending a mortgage with Bristol and West, who turned us down flat for some arcane reason or other. We eventually moved in on Friday 18th April in a rusting white transit van driven by Kevin from the Kenny Process Team (who have split up again, incidentally).

I can’t think of too many flat-related milestones in the last 10 years, you’ll be glad to hear. I do remember coming home one night in 1999 to find a strange bloke sitting in our stairwell. “Are you alright?” I asked him. “Er, yeah, I’ll be gone in a minute,” he said, slightly aggressively, which in no way explained what he was doing there in the first place. For the next 3 hours we heard him shuffling around on the stairs, so at 2am I called the local police station. They said they’d send someone over in the next hour. 5 minutes later a police car screeched to a halt outside the block, and three burly rozzers ran in. “You filthy bastard,” we heard one rozzer shout. Apparently he’d been jacking up in the stairwell, and then decided to have a wank over some porn that he’d kept handy. Nice. We had an entryphone system installed shortly afterwards.

That might be the only notable incident, actually. Since I split up with Erika in 2001, I’ve had 7 lodgers: Caroline, Cora, smakake, sexyworld, David, Mark and demiabeille, and now that Jenny’s moved in I hope I won’t have any more, as three’s a crowd, especially in a two-bedroom flat. I’ve had 2 kitchens, 2 bathrooms, 2 hallway ceilings, 2 carpets and no break-ins. I’ve managed to retain a fondness for Tooting, despite its relentless unveiling of new and unnecessary Sri Lankan restaurants and grocers shops (23 are enough, cheers.) The flat isn’t looking 10 years old, thanks to a spirited wallpaper pasting session on Sunday afternoon by my dad. I’ve just received a couple of quotes on double glazing to replace the annoying middle bank of 12 windows that threatens to decapitate an innocent postman, as the old Billy Joel song goes. Everything’s fine, really. I will celebrate my Tin anniversary this evening by sitting in on my own and watching the England cricket team being trounced by South Africa.