I’m often jealous of London tourists. They’re able to see my home city through joy-filled, unjaded eyes: to truly be awestruck by the grandeur of the Houses of Parliament and St Paul’s; to stop on the Millennium Bridge and stare in wonder at a capital split in two by the mighty Thames; to look upon the heaving streets around Leicester Square without scorn.
If familiarity doesn’t quite breed contempt, it certainly breeds apathy. Living in London for 13 years, my relationship with it could generally be summed up thus: shrug. Sure, I know that, in theory, it’s one of the most exciting capital cities in the world. In practice, I’ve become somewhat desensitised to its charms, and spent much of the last decade treading the same well-worn routes to work/friends’ houses/my local. We’re in the long-term relationship phase where, after such a long period of knowing each other intimately, it takes a lot to jolt you out of your torpor and really see the other party.
