It's a love/hate relationship

I heart the ghetto
Tuesday morning: I wake up late, but it’s ok as I only live 2 minutes from the tube station.

I don't heart the ghetto
Tuesday morning: I step out the front door and have to walk down the road avoiding the discarded chicken bones and empty beer cans that are littered across the street.

I heart the ghetto
Tuesday morning: some random stranger stops me outside the station and tells me I look pretty.

I don’t heart the ghetto
Tuesday morning: Despite being so far south that I'm practically in Brighton, I still don’t manage to get a seat on the tube and have to spend 30 minutes with someone’s grotty armpit in my face.

I heart the ghetto
Tuesday afternoon: my flatmate tells me that there’s been a “police incident” on our street and it’s all cordoned off, so we spend a few minutes emailing back and forth trying to guess which weirdo on our street is responsible. Is it the crazy woman with the gigantic knickers on her washing line, or the bald man who tells us he “knows people” so to call him if we need anything, or the couple across the road who have better public arguments and rows than anything the Eastenders script writers could dream up.

I don’t heart the ghetto
Tuesday afternoon: we hear a rumour that the police incident may be a stabbing on our street.

I heart the ghetto
Tuesday night: When I get home late, the supermarket is still open so I can buy myself a nutritious meal of super noodles with a tin of sardines. I may live in the ghetto, but I can still get my recommended daily allowance of Omega-3. Life is good.