When we left London, we promised we’d never be part of the “we hate London now” brigade. We left when we wanted to, rather than waiting until we needed to, and still leap to London’s defence whenever anyone takes a pop at it.
Because London’s great. Of course it is. Best city in the world. If I was to have my time again, and had to choose a city to spend more than two decades in, I wouldn’t hesitate. New York is edgy and cool, and feels pretty much constantly like a film set. Rome is like walking round your very own classical myth, only instead of gorgons and minotaurs you’re bombarded with beautiful pizza and equally beautiful people. But London? London’s special. It’s historic and modern all at the same time. It’s got culture coming out of its Thames-hole, it’s where I met my partner, and it’s where our kids were born. It’s home to the greatest French restaurant in the world, and the greatest Irish pub — that isn’t an Irish pub — outside of Ireland. I love London, and one of the absolute joys of my current life is that despite having left it, I still get to be there loads. I get to have my cake, eat it, and then nip into Bouchon Racine for some snails and the Devonshire for a Guinness in the Green Room.
