For most of my adult life, in a way typical of those of us from the North, I have disdained London.
Too big. Too busy. Too smug. Too… London. I’ve long maintained that its gravitational pull distorts the rest of the country, and that one’s quality of life improves in direct proportion to one’s distance from Zone 1.
And yet — I am beginning to suspect that, deep down, behind my carefully-curated facade, I really rather like it.
It started innocently enough: a team away day, one of those softly-mandated pilgrimages to headquarters. The sort of day filled with icebreakers (Lord help me), and colleagues sketching their superhero alter-egos (naturally). But something about it all — the spring sunshine, the civility of strangers answering my dumb questions on the tube, the sheer pleasantness of the whole affair — began to crack my cynicism.
The train journey down there was full but tolerable. I even forgave the freeze-dried coffee sachet (£2.50, thanks LNER) and found unexpected delight in the rhythm of Audible piped through noise-cancelling headphones. I listened to Tony Blair musing on technocracy and health reform. The irony was not lost on me.
We gathered in a sleek office somewhere in Canary Wharf and talked about six-week software cycles and data integration. It should have been excruciating. But it wasn’t. It was… fine. I met a bright twenty-something who knew his stuff and didn’t make me feel ancient. I had a mini sushi box that I dearly wished had been a maxi. I bonded over high-level architecture diagrams and event-driven dreams.
Later, in the pub (where I eked out two £7.85 pints), I traded gossip and shots with colleagues I had previously only seen in pixelated form. At some point, without quite noticing, I found myself thinking: this is nice.
Two hours later, back on the train with a £7.49 Cornish pasty and aching legs, I declared it aloud: I have decided to like London now.
It’s only two hours from Selby. The Elizabeth Line exists. The people — heaven help me — are making an effort. Even the pasty wasn’t terrible.
And so, London, I offer you this: a retraction. Not quite an apology I suppose, and certainly not a love letter. But a grudging acknowledgment that I’ve changed my mind. You’re alright. Let’s not get carried away.
“Even a leopard can change its spots,” said Jocelyn when I told her. Quite right. And this particular leopard now travels with paracetamol in his rucksack, and periodically stretches in train aisles.