As a student of English Literature in central London I studied various writers who wrote about London. I had arrived from rural North Buckinghamshire and had absorbed the poetry of William Wordsworth about the sinfulness of city life and its temptations, presumably alehouses and brothels.

In the long run I ended up living in London for thirteen years, addicted to a feeling of lassitude and inadequacy, lost in the idea that I could never achieve anything in the huge city or ever have any impact on the world. Parallel to this I found it very hard to make friends. Everyone else was motivated by the excitement of London but I was in despair. London has a place for desperation and it’s in the gutter. London was tired of me.

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