Give me your wallet, keys and travel card

I've lived in London for three and a half years now. During that time I've gone through the whole police charge list of emotions that newcomers get. First the sheer awe at how big the place is. Then comes a slight familiarity with the places you live and work. It's good. You like the town. You're offended when you're not peddled skunk on your way out of Camden tube.

Then the dark underbelly emerges, an ugly place where nastiness lurks and tries to steal your wallet whilst you're waiting for change. Naturally you hand it over because you don't like the look of the beast, and you accept that London is a hell hole that attracts this kind of loon, and you walk with your head down and talk to no one.

Then, you learn to live with the madness, and become strange yourself. The lunatic locals are at least your lunatic locals. Better this way than some provincial town where they don't understand these methods. No, now you're in for the long haul. You may hate the place, but the only worst place you could be is anywhere else.

Lump it.

I went for a walk tonight. One of those late night things where you have the time and no rush to be anywhere, so you pick a tube station and take t from there. A guilt free adventure. I don't know anywhere else you can shop for DVDs at 9.10pm, or where smokers pass a cigarette end down a station platform, like the Olympic torch, because no one amongst you has a light. That kind of touching brotherhood keeps me here.

My day got better. Maybe things are salvageable after all. I'll give it a try. Maybe that's what determines how much you like this place.