 I’m brave enough to admit to it; I used to be a London snob. Basically, and I cringe looking back on it, I subconsciously thought everything important about the UK happened in London. The rest of the country didn’t exist, beyond supplying contestants for 'University Challenge'. Having lived in Cambridge and Sheffield, and visited many other cities, I grew out of this suspect perspective.
However London does seem to be in the centre of lots of friend’s maps – it’s remarkable how many people I know from around the country have chosen to settle here. This dawned on me in the taxi home from a house party I went to last weekend. The event turned out to be the Cara Wides episode of ‘This is Your Life’ but with hummus and crudités, and £2.99 bottles of red wine.
People from every stage of my existence, many who I hadn’t seen for years, were there. There were faces from my junior school, senior school, gap year, university, Sunday school, voluntary work, summer camps, and who I’d met through my career field. If I’d known I could’ve brought filing cards with my CV in bullet points, to sidestep all the “So, what are you doing now?”s.
Why does everyone end up in London? And are people attracted to the fact they’ll constantly be bumping into acquaintances they’ve known for 25 years? Personally I’m glad there is this network of familiar people living in the same part of North West London as me. I’ve heard friends say the phenomenon makes them claustrophobic, but I think it’s quite cosy; it must be like being a resident in a rural village where families have lived for generations.
There are disadvantages; you can’t go to buy a pint of milk in your pyjama bottoms because you’ll probably see someone you know. If you go to a party such as last weekend’s, you wake up with a sore throat the next day from all the shrieks of recognition and small talk.
Also, if you get some sort of reputation, it’s hard to leave it behind. One girl I knew from childhood summer camp seemed to be going out with a different boy, and sometimes girl, every ten minutes. I’m sure no one in her current job automatically follows her name with ‘she’s ridden more often than a paperboy’s bike,’ but I automatically think of her like that. I need to remember that I knew her 15 years ago; she’s probably virtually a nun these days.
I’ve been on the receiving end; I bumped into a teacher at Swiss Cottage swimming pool who I hadn’t seen for 10 years, since leaving school. “Hello, trouble!” she greeted me, and I nearly stabbed her arm bands with my locker key.
My conclusion is that parties where the mad, bad and dangerous to know from your past put in an appearance are OK, but only once in a blue moon, and only if you are in the mood. No need to move out of London, in a bid to avoid them.
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