Sometime around their late thirties and early forties, something happens to each London generation. A fundamental division emerges between those who flit the city for the coast and those who stay. The old ravers head to Margate. The gays to St Leonards. Fancy types that need at least one boutique hotel in their immediate sightline gravitate to Broadstairs or Deal. Artful bohemian London will land in Lewes. Each seaside enclave houses its own distinct demographic. One wonders how those who choose the chocolate box village green and Etsy shopping vibes of the prim Suffolk shoreline ever coped with the capital. Perhaps they rarely left Chiswick?
This early middle-aged exodus has a visibly beneficial, replenishing effect on London itself, as the city-smart wheat is separated from its more wistful, pragmatic seaside chaff. It’s like the city has had a new haircut, a couple of discreet shots of Botox or tried a first round of Ozempic. With the middle-aged thinning out of view, the city looks younger, prettier, leaner, cooler. It feels more exciting. An unusual Zone 2 borough emerges to which the young magnetise, stamping their identity all over it. In a flash, the visual landscape of Tottenham Hale Tube station is doing its bit to break down the gender binary. House prices may be cheaper, but you don’t get much of that in, say, Worthing.
