One of the first things you notice when you move from the regions to London is how much prettier everyone is here. That sudden, clear-sighted proximity to undeniable gorgeousness chimes with the clarity of a fire alarm siren. Like hardened political power, dizzying financial acumen and household-name fame, London is a place which magnetises hotness. The line of beauty imperceptibly changes.
When I moved from Manchester, where I grew up, to London, where I’ve now spent most of my life, I was a reasonably safe seven. Still in my mid-twenties, I had hair. The extra waistline timber hadn’t started to settle. By the time my postcode upgraded, M15 to N7, I slumped to a five, worked out by catching myself in the mirror.
