There’s a certain rhythm to life when you live above a church. While the rest of the world manages a lie-in on a Sunday morning, it’s an early start at Sam James, Emma Finneran and Matt Bromhead’s place. First, there are the bells. “I’ve never been able to work out whether they’re to say the service is starting or it’s over, even after all this time,” says Sam, who’s been living there for four years, and whose bedroom was padded when he moved in. “That must have been the previous tenant’s attempt at soundproofing, but I don’t see how it could have worked. It looked quite eerie.” Then there’s the chanting. “No hymn singing from the congregation,” he says. “It’s just one or two men chanting, that’s it.”
After that, the smells start wafting up from the kitchen. You’d expect moussaka or maybe some lamb, but the
