Seven years ago, London spat me out. This was not something I had ever imagined possible — until it happened. London was in my blood; people with my surname — and we’re all related — have been in London for centuries.
I had no intention of leaving the place. In fact, I failed to see what the point of other places was. When married, the family would visit my in-laws once a month or so. They lived in Harpenden. Why, I asked myself, would anyone live there? Come to think of it, I would ask myself as we drove through the town to get there, why does anyone live in St Albans? What is the point of it? I mean, I could just about understand it if you’d moved there from somewhere even worse, but to leave London for somewhere so provincial — how could you live with yourself?
