My first London address was a two-bed on the 13th-floor of Lillingston House, a white and grey tower on a social housing scheme tucked into the footfall of Arsenal’s ground. I’d moved from my native Manchester. You could see the Post Office tower from the living-room window, a glaring daily reminder of no longer waking up in the regions. Close proximity to the noise of football reminded me of home. I loved that duality.
A short walk onto Holloway Road there was more. Shopping with the monied middle classes of Waitrose, drinking with the proletariat at Wetherspoons afterwards. The neighbourhood character was coloured in best by flitting between both. A touch of class, a lot of bonhomie. That liquid juxtaposition lubricated the passage of my psychological shift, North to South very nicely, cheers.
