You cannot be a Northerner and a Londoner. A Northern Londoner does not exist. Your entire London experience may be shaped by the fact you are a Northerner (the prices! the nice voices! the talking about different things happening in the world!) and yet you aren’t a Northerner. The minute you move down here, that’s you cast out of Northernness forever.
This is the paradox that sprung to mind as I tossed handfuls of notes at the festive treat that is Winter Wonderland, spending at a rate of roughly £10 per minute. What shocked me was not the expense but how well I was taking the expense. Part of this was about the experience of bringing joy to my eight year old daughter, who was lost in a blizzard of cream, chocolate flakes and soft toys, along with the Christmassy spirit that is sparked in any Northerner by lights (gasp!), music (ooh!) and gatherings of people that don’t involve someone getting their head kicked in at the centre (aww!). Yet I also recognised that the years have gradually degraded my upset at London prices. It’s not that my salary had grown enough to adjust, far from it, it’s that I’ve been so pulverised by them every day for so long, that, like a dog beaten by its owner, I’ve come to expect the punishment, quietly assent, and even like it a bit if it’s not as bad as expected.
