As someone who grew up in – and still lives in – London, I’ve always pictured myself staying put. But lately, the mass closure of venues and pubs, the cost of living that means you can’t breathe outside your house without spending 20 quid, and the audacity of landlords (posting a picture of a pile of dirty clothes instead of the room itself – seriously) has left me a bit disillusioned with the Big Smoke.
It wasn’t until I found myself in Glasgow’s Cat House – surrounded by sweaty Scottish grebos, Limp Bizkit’s “My Way” annihilating my eardrums, sipping on a £4 vodka lime soda (yes, four pounds) after a fantastic day of eating and exploring – that I started to seriously wonder if I was living in the wrong city.
