I have a bad case of northern homesickness
I’ve long held firm to the adage that you can’t truly call yourself a local in the town, city or village you reside in until you’ve spent over half your life there. By my own calculation, I’ve just tipped over into becoming a Londoner: as of this year, I have spent 24 of my 47 years in the capital. Not only that, but I’m marrying into the clan too. My fiancée – whom I’ll be tying the knot with in the spring – is a born-and-bred Chelsea girl whose proximity to the sound of Bow Bells has never strayed further than Crystal Palace. I live here, not because I have to (being a freelance journalist these days means I could probably pen this from Bali or Bognor if I chose) but because my love affair with the capital is still fervent. This, despite