Some of my fondest memories are within the M25. Like a picnic with me mates on Hampstead Heath one grey Saturday afternoon, Tequila Sunrises in the Adelaide’s garden bar in Swiss Cottage, drinking six bottles of cheap French red wine with Aidan then going to a party all night before waking up on the Piccadilly line on the opposite side of town, Sunday Cumberland Feasts with pints in The George in Clapham South. It’s an extremely long list. Reviewing it, they all involve alcohol. But I’ve moved on. Kind of.
So when Carly Kirkwood interrupted my Thursday night’s telly to tell me the Tube was under attack, I panicked. I’m awfully fond of my friends there, and London as a city. It turns my stomach what the tube passengers went through that day, and what it’s doing to the world’s greatest city, a microcosm of the world.
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