The Kentish Town vs Hampstead debate continues to rumble on at Fox Corner, stuck as we are in the hinterland (aka 'Gospel Oak') between the two.
The thing is that, yes, Hampstead has nicer, quieter streets, more beautiful houses, and posher shops. Sure, if you want to shop at Reiss, Zadig and Voltaire, and the Gap, then NW3 is where you want to be.
But Hampstead doesn't have a Blustons. Blustons is a ladieswear shop which has had the same range (and possibly the the same stock) since the 1940s. It's very handy if you want to buy a smart dress, or the latest style of raincoat, or some gloves.
No overclaim here - they only have it 'in most sizes'.
Note my sandals reflected in the window. It is, after all, August. Not really glove season, is it?
'Latest' rain jacket.
Nor, in Hampstead, do you see people like this nice girl, with her moving tribute to her grandfather. In Hampstead when an old man dies, his family hold a lovely service and then go somewhere nice like the Horseshoe or The Wells for a family lunch.
The gentrification of Kentish Town has been mooted for many years, though I never believed it was real. A good gastro pub and a bookshop do not a new Primrose Hill make. As long as the Superdrug is bigger than the Boots, and as long as there are more kebab shops than bistros, you can safely say it's still an area with some grit to it. The people peeing their pants and shouting at themselves in the benefits queue at the Post Office cannot truly be said to be 'gentry'.
But I think it may finally be happening....
The evidence? Well for a start, even the kebab shops are posh now. Witness E. Mono, with its heritage shop frontage and free range chicken. London's new French school chose NW5 as its base, which explains the preponderance of beautifully accented, Breton stripe-wearing, yummy mummies round these parts lately. Then there's the arrival of Costa Coffee, Pret a Manger, and 'finest Italian fennel' to the veg stand by the tube.
And if that isn't enough proof, check this lovely urban plaza out.
When I first moved to the area a decade ago this shelter next to the tube was dilapidated and missing panes of glass. This did not deter the dispossessed from sitting on the steps underneath it, drinking Special Brew and yelling at each other.
Now, the restored shelter has a groovy coffee stand featuring ethically sourced coffee, a florist, and some cool, itinerant-free seating.
Before we move in across the postcode boundary, I'm determined to convince TLOML of the delights of Kentish Town, the land of plenty to our east.
Obviously my campaign is entirely based on food and drink. Kentish Town has a preponderance of above average places to eat. My theory is that the presence of The Times food critic has upped the ante. Giles Coren has lived in the area for years and is a bit of a lazy sod: he appears to like reviewing places he can walk to. There are more good places to eat in Kentish Town than it's posher neighbours in Hampstead and Belsize Park, and Camden, bristling with hipsters.
At least, that's what I think. And TLOML is, I think, coming around to my way of thinking.
We've enjoyed very good curry from Monsoon, and Liberty Kebabish, Dartmouth Park's two competing, neighbouring curry houses. They are across the street from one other and both are pretty decent, though we prefer Kebabish because it has pictures of the Pakistani cricket team on the walls and we like the name. It's just a bit kebab-ish, innit?
We have sampled the gourmet kebabs at E.Mono. Maybe gourmet is overstretching it but the meat is organic, and the salads very fresh. It's a sober, lunchtime kebab. Remarkable.
The lovely E. Mono 'bab shop
We've joined the hordes sampling Arancini Brothers' lovely balls of rice. And tucked into octopus and ragu (not on the same plate) at The Vine.
So many fantastic places to eat, and I haven't even started on the gastropubs yet. I mean, we've started eating at them. But I haven't started writing about them yet: there are too too many! And while we are squatting, we are eating out every night. So, that's another post..
Friends, family and readers know that the move back to London for me was not motivated by a general desire to live in the world’s greatest city. Rather, it was about moving home. Home to my old manor, with familiar pubs and perhaps almost as importantly, dear friends, living close by.
Some may have seen recent posts about the flat we’re about to rent – you know, the one with the foxes and the kiwi tree – and thought I had got exactly what I wanted. TLOML has a special ‘happy now?’ expression he adopts whenever we chat about how brilliant living in Fox Corner will be.
Far from it. Five streets away from what I wanted, in fact. Our new flat is in NW3, which is technically Hampstead. We will be very close to Keats’ Grove with its gorgeous Queen Anne houses and old gardens. A gentle uphill stroll will take us to old Hampstead Village with its excellent pubs (The Hollybush being a particular favourite), ancient alleyways, and a good branch of The Gap.
Doesn't sound so awful, I know. Okay, I’ll admit it, Hampstead is one of London’s oldest and most charming of villages. I just really really like Kentish Town.
Kentish Town occupies NW5, which starts, as I said, about 5 streets or a 3 minute walk away from Fox Corner. Kentish Town, in stark contrast to Hampstead, has a distinctly scruffy high street. There are very few chain stores. No-one travels there from other postcodes for an afternoon stroll and a nice lunch. And yet…
And yet… it has brilliant independent shops including an excellent bookshop, a nice little stationers, a big organic grocers with a Neal’s Yard counter, and a Lebanese foodhall that sells 3 different kinds of carrot jam. Being close to Camden means that sometimes young rocker types get lost and end up in NW5 (though rumours of its being ‘the next Shoreditch’ have never really been convincing). And there are about a dozen excellent, independent pubs serving really good food. Admittedly there are sometimes crazy people shouting at themselves in the Post Office, which you don't get so much of in Hampstead. And rather more tanning shops than your average North London high street too.
In a way the scruffiness makes it even more appealing: it’s that hidden gem quality, I suppose.
Anyway, as I said, Fox Corner is not in Kentish Town. It is over the border in NW3. This strikes me as a supreme compromise on my part. TLOML is not so convinced. Apparently being 5 streets away from where I wanted to live ought to count as a big win for me.
In many ways we may have found the perfect compromise. We can stroll west one day, and enjoy the beauty and fancy bakeries of Hampstead. The next day we can head east and savour the secret charms and quality beers of Kentish Town.
Truly, home is where the heart is. And even though my heart had a leaning to be five streets further East, I think it’ll be burstingly happy in NW3, with TLOML, the foxes and the kiwis.
In the past week we've viewed over a dozen flats for rent, including that one with the roof terrace accessible only by ladder, and a very dark but rather chic place where Roland Gift used to live. None have so far had a laundry chute but most have satisfied our basic needs. One particular flat captured our imagination for a few days: a bright and well planned duplex with a nice little roof terrace. What I liked most of all about it is the handpainted sign at the bottom of the road:
Even if you don't love Parliament Hill Fields - and I do - who wouldn't love to live where that nice bus conductor's hand is pointing? I think it's the hand of a bus conductor. Possibly it's a Victorian Bobby. Or a stationmaster. Regardless, it's clearly an old fashioned man in charge of directions. And I like the sign a lot.
But the roof terrace wasn't super friendly for Jack, the cat I hope to reclaim (he's been sofa surfing at an old friend's since I left). After a while I suspect our neighbours might get tired of him pooing on their roof terraces. Although it was a very good flat, and we could definitely live there for a while, I didn't really get excited about it.
Then we saw a different flat a few streets away. This street has two handpainted signs at the end. Although neither of them say Parliament Hill Fields, one does, crucially, have the pointing hand I like so much.
Also, crucially (yes, I'm using the word loosely), it has a kiwi tree and apple trees in the garden. Yes, okay, NW5 kiwi fruit is more decorative than edible. Still. It has a cellar. No, I don't know what we'd use the cellar for but I like it. Apparently foxes lived there for a while when the flat was empty. The thought of that makes me shudder, but then I remember the kiwi tree and feel better. It has a lovely, cosy, exposed brick living room with lots of shelves for all our books. There's plenty of garden for Jack to roam in, and space for bikes by the (rather burglar-friendly) back gate. And a nice new shower room. More to the point, did I mention, it has a kiwi tree? And the handpainted sign at the end of the road?
As you can probably tell, I fell a little bit in love with this flat. The more practical concerns I should probably harbour have flown out of the window. Perhaps it was the very same window I first glimpsed the kiwi tree through. I did a halfhearted google for back gate security solutions but within moments was eyeing up recipes for kiwi jam.
Fortunately for us both, TLOML's sentimental side is balanced by the steely mind of a lawyer with a nose for damp, security concerns, and peculiar break clauses in contracts. So he will be making some enquiries and doing some negotiating.
The jury's still out on whether we take this flat. But my heart has already moved in. And if the flathunt continues, you can consider a kiwi tree the new dealbreaker.
Apologies to regular readers for the extended absence. Big Corp UK welcomed me back to the country with open arms, a number of face-to-face meetings, and a lot of time consuming urgent pieces of work. It was not quite the soft landing I was hoping for. Dentist appointments were cancelled, alarm clocks were set for rude o'clock, and my plans to spend my days mooching around North London looking at flats - and my evenings writing jolly posts about it - were shattered.
TLOML and I did at least make a bit of a start on our flat hunt. We started with the estate agents in Kentish Town, who cover Dartmouth Park, where I most want to live. The red dots on this map show our route, from one end of the high street to the other:
We visited 8 estate agents, with our very reasonable set of requirements (2-3 bedrooms, outside space) and what we have been told is a good budget. There are, apparently, only two flats in all of Kentish Town that meet our spec. Just two. Imagine if I'd told them about TLOML's dreams of two bathrooms and a wine cellar: we'd have been laughed out of town.
Apparently 'when people move into this area, they never leave'. As a long standing fan of NW5 I can understand that inclination. But at the same time, it just can't actually be true, surely? Literally, no one ever moves? No young family ever decides to stop renting 3 bedrooms in NW5 and buy 4 bedrooms in N19? No old lady decides to give up her period garden flat for a new build with a balcony? No one ever dies? (Not that I'm wishing anyone dead. But give it time... I could go there).
Welcome to the neighbourhood where no-one ever moves. Which rather begs the question: if no-one ever moves how come there are so many estate agents?
This post is dedicated to two special groups of readers:
1. Those people (pity them!) who have never spent time on Hampstead Heath and wonder why I have such a bee in my bonnet about living close by.
2. Those New Yorkers (thumb your teeth at them!) who think London's weather is relentlessly awful.
Today I renewed my commitment to a longstanding tradition. As per the NW5 tradition/ routine, I took a constitutional yomp across Hampstead Heath, with 3 friends and traditional 'what did you do last night' chat. It was a gorgeous, crisp, chilly, sunny day.
See? We do get blue skies here (I shouldn't mention yesterday's wall-to-wall drizzle..)
We headed, without discussion, up Parliament Hill, the natural starting point for any Heath yomp. It was the first time I've walked up there for at least a year. The view which was so familiar - from the many years when I walked up Parliament Hill at least once a week - has changed significantly. 'The Shard' is really shockingly tall! Anyway, that's not news to anyone who lives in London and I was roundly mocked for commenting, so I won't comment further.
It isn't just me who thinks The Shard is ridiculously tall. It's just that everyone else got over it months ago.
Then we struck out, north across the Heath, to the Pergola, which is something of a hidden gem. The pergola is an elevated walkway, essentially an Edwardian folly, in the grounds of Leverhulme House (the Hampstead pile of soap baron, Mr Lever, of Unilever fame, now converted into fancy flats). Even at this time of year, with bare branches and barely a bud in sight, it's a lovely place to walk.
Someone else's pic of the pergola, in summer. I think you get the picture though.
Our meander took us South via the Vale of Health, a cluster of cottages where poor people used to live when Hampstead was a fashionable spa town. And back, along the avenue which cuts East-West across the Heath, to the Dartmouth Park side. Where the tennis courts and good places to eat and drink are.
As often happens when I mooch around NW5 with friends, we bumped into some other friends doing much the same meander. Hot chocolate at Kalendar as the final light faded was the perfect end to the afternoon.
On the home straits, as the sun sets over Hampstead
And that pleasant, and rather pedestrian ('scuse the pun) afternoon, is just one of the many reasons I'm so happy to be home. The NW5 comfort bubble is as comfortable and enjoyable as ever.
The same ex who accused me of 'living in an NW5 comfort bubble' also repeatedly told me I was 'in a rut'. He was right on both counts - and I was proud to concede so.
Why be ashamed of my lovely comfortable rut? A walk on the Heath every Sunday afternoon, followed by tea and Antiques Roadshow, or a pint. Saturday afternoons rifling through stock in 'The Shop' (so named because the Wonder Twin and I went there so frequently it needed no name). A regular grocery shopping run through the gourmet delights of Kentish Town (B&M Seafood, Phoenicia for baba ganoush and humous, and Earth for all the essentials). A twice weekly walk up to the Ladies Pond in the summer. A monthly pedicure at Tips and Toes. Poker nights, petanque on the Heath, and the occasional cricket match. And so on. This very pleasant, well established rhythm wove its way through a wonderful group of friends and some favourite pubs, parks and cafes, and yes, it was all very cosy.
When TLOML uprooted me to LA it did not take long to establish a new comfortable rut. Our regular run out to Nobu, followed by an ice cream from Malibu Yoghurt. Monday lunches at Coogies, to get out of the maids' hair. A sunset stroll on the beach, and my almost daily forays out on my bike, Doris (for so the Euro has christened her). Gin rummy and whisky on the deck. Pizza nights. Bouillabaisse nights. Our couples workout at the Pepperdine track.
In some ways we never really settled in New York, with our hearts stretched as they were between Malibu and London. But we did manage to get into a lovely comfortable rut there too, fairly quickly. Our regular walk down to Chelsea Market, sprees in the Lobster Place, cocktails at the Tipsy Parson, and coffee at Joe. Detours past Stella or Artichoke on the way home. My new running routine along the river. Nights in with Battlestar Galactica. And, of course, the ritual of bouillabaisse.
Living as I am in limbo, I am without routine. And yet, my ability to create a routine will not be constrained. 10 days in Rio is plenty of time to form a nice comfy rut. I quickly established the same breakfast every day - fruit, cereal and yoghurt, and I don't even look at the 'sausage pie' or the pastry baskets - and a gentle 3 mile jog along the sea front. I've managed to catch E! news every night, and BBC World News 'Hard Talk' every morning, which is a very edifying TV routine. And a highlight of my routine is my expresso duplo in the office, which always comes with a tiny little biscuit on it. The treat for me is guessing what the little biscuit will be.
Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday
Friday
Thursday
Above all, it's just nice to feel at home. Guessing what today's little biscuit will be is a small way of feeling at home.
Still, I am not at home. And I'm dying to get there and get back in my rut. Since I last lived in London some of the parameters have moved: pubs have changed hands, people have had babies and even, gasp!,moved to the country. Still, the foundations of dear friends and excellent pubs remain.
I remain convinced our visa, and therefore TLOML's arrival in London, is imminent. Even though we'll be a little bit nomadic at first, I know it won't take long to establish a new routine. Hopefully one that involves as much as possible of my old routine - expanded and enhanced by TLOML's presence.
It's not just the title of a brilliant British TV show I really missed in the States. (Selling New York did soften the blow). It's also an important topic of discussion as we plan our hunt for a nest.
Now, I should admit that I have been accused of being a little closed-minded in the past, when it comes to London neighbourhoods. It's all about North London for me. By which I mean, the area around Hampstead Heath. And I say 'the area around Hampstead Heath' but really I mean, quite specifically, Dartmouth Park, which before Ed Miliband moved in was a hidden gem of a neighbourhood. It's close to the Heath, has a couple of excellent gastro pubs, and is leafy and quiet.
I like West London, and East London perfectly fine. I know there are good people, pubs, and parks there too. I even go there sometimes. But I lived so long and was so happy in what one ex called my 'NW5 comfort bubble' that I can't really imagine living anywhere else.
TLOML is far more open-minded (though even he wouldn't seriously entertain living south of the river, thank goodness). Occasionally, to fend off pangs of conscience I look at rental ads in London Fields, or St John's Wood, just to see what's out there. But I quickly scuttle back to the NW5 / NW3 / N6 listings.
A few weeks ago I helpfully printed out and marked up some maps of the area around Hampstead Heath for TLOML. Just so he could apply the same filters as I do to the London landscape. Green are the twenty streets I would most like to live on. Yellow I could, reluctantly, deal with. If the flat was a palace. Red is a no-no. And if it's off the map? Well, it's off the map.
Hmm. Perhaps those accusers have a point. I guess I am pretty narrow-minded.
In my defence, moving to London isn't about going on an exciting voyage of discovery. It's about going home. And home is, well, somewhere up near Hampstead Heath.
I'm not ruling anywhere out yet. As I stayed at the Gambler's pad last week, in the heart of the Eastern yellow zone (that's not an official Ordnance Survey term, but just refers to my map above), I opened my mind to the charms of Kentish Town proper. But it's almost a ten minute walk from the Heath, and I know that sounds silly, but when you're used to being just across the road from it, a ten minute walk sounds awfully far. So my fingers remain tightly crossed we can find a suitable nest somewhere in the green zone.
Meanwhile, TLOML's visa application is safely in the hands of the good people at the UK Border Agency, and he, marooned without passport, is kipping on our favourite New Yorker's sofa. I am in a hotel on Copacabana beach, gazing past Rio's palm trees, daydreaming of grey-skied Kentish Town.
Admittedly my situation is more fun than his, but still, we're both in limbo. And I'm trying to be patient, but oh! I can't wait for the flat hunt to begin.
You know, like those annoying, those lazy newspaper articles. I see now why they do it. It's an easy way to summarise some loosely linked thoughts in a, well, yes, lazy way.
So here it is:
6 nights at Number 25, the Gambler's flat. A very stylish, comfortable bachelor pad, with a great big telly and some lovely mid-century furniture.
Threesolid hours with each of my London goddaughters. If I had a competition for which of them was the brightest, sweetest and funniest, they would tie.
3 favourite bus routes. 134, C2, 46, getting me from NW5 to wherever I need to be. I love London buses. Disproportionately so.
30 hours, at least, of BBC News 24 ...and about the same of of Radio 4. I'm now fully up to speed with the Archers, the cricket, and all that boring-yet-fascinating background information you don't know you're picking up but will quote in a conversation sometime very soon.
8 to 10 cups of tea, and 2 glasses of wine, with each of my Handmaidens-of-Honour (the HoHs). Deep, deep joy at the long, langourous chats that can happen when they aren't being squinched between two Transatlantic flights, or conducted via Skype.
£1.50 for a perfect Americano from the Wine Cellar, Kentish Town's long-standing Portugese deli. And I didn't crack and throw in a pastel de nata, those delicious little custard tarts they sell.
By my standards, that's a pretty good week in Kentish Town. And only about 2000 'I miss you' texts sent to TLOML.
And now... I'm off for 10 days in Rio.
Annoyingly I am leaving Rio the day the carnival - that massive, world famous, street party - starts. (It's the price of a visa to stay another night - I just can't do it). So I imagine the number of passenger on my flight home will not be much higher than 1.
The roofdeck at my friend The Gambler's fabulous flat, where I am staying. I think I'll eat breakfast inside tomorrow.
It's snowing in London: thick, and deep and lovely. Big fluffy snowflakes are still coming down, and even scruffy old Kentish Town looks pristine, all covered in a blanket of white. Victorian railings look even more Victorian when they are dusted with snow. And the mismatched paving slabs are better hidden too. Just when I thought I couldn't love London any more, it went and got a new white coat.
Prince of Wales Road, from The Gambler's window. Trust me, it doesn't always look this pretty.
Snowfall is rare in London. Snow that settles is even rarer. In fact, you only see snow like this every twenty years.
Which is funny, because in the winter of 2010/11 there was a crazy amount of snow, the likes of which you only see every twenty years. And remember that violent cold snap with all that heavy snow in the winter of 2009/10? That too was the kind of snow you only see every twenty years.
Last year's unprecedented snow
Hmmm. Either we've used up the next sixty years of snow... or there might be something in all this talk of climate chaos after all.
Which is a bummer, partly because it discredits me. I've been vehemently insisting - to all those New Yorkers who disparage the English climate - that 'the weather in New York is SO much more extreme' and 'we NEVER get snow or temperatures below freezing'.
Clearly I am wrong. It used to be true but it isn't any more. And yet, I'm not the only Londoner who hasn't caught up with reality yet. Londoners really don't handle this weather well at all. Tonight on my short walk through Kentish Town I saw a man wearing a blazer over a shirt, with no scarf or gloves on. Another man in canvas plimsolls. And a girl in jazz shoes, bare ankles and leggings.
People, it's below freezing, and it's been snowing for five hours! You'd be laughed off the island of Manhattan in that get up.
2009's unprecedented snow. Note the woman without clothes and all the flimsy shoes. Not a pair of boots among them!
I never thought I'd say this, but it is time to succumb to the appeal of the duvet coat. Make like New Yorkers and wrap up for goodness sake!
I'm home. Back in my old 'hood, staying at a much-loved friend's much-loved flat in the heart of dear old Kentish Town.
Actually, since home is where the heart is, technically I am not really home. My heart remains in New York. TLOML is still there, sorting out his visa.
We may have been a little overconfident when we made our initial visa application. We were so sure of the outcome that we didn't investigate the process particularly closely. So when the application form stated 'You will be required to provide evidence of your relationship history and plans to marry', we just blithely assumed that we would be asked for that evidence further down the line. A week later the application came back, rejected, because we had not provided any evidence. Very frustrating, and a very expensive mistake.
We won't make the same omission second time around. In a frenzied day, between considering a Vegas wedding, running over the precise meaning of the phrase 'you will be...' time and time again, and of course doing all our leaving NY errands, we managed to amass over 140 pages of evidence of our relationship. TLOML organised and indexed it with lawyerly precision.
It's a watertight application, now we know what we're actually doing. Still, while it's in process, TLOML has to stay in New York.
The new visa application. Solid.
Meanwhile I had to return to London, and start work. I felt strangely bereft when I left Manhattan yesterday. I wasn't sure if it was sadness at waving goodbye to homeless, visa-less TLOML, or a poignant moment as the US chapter of my life has closed. Whatever it was, leaving New York on my one way flight was not the purely positive experience one might expect, given how long I've looked forward to moving home. Yes, I definitely felt a bit wobbly.
And then... and then I landed. I haven't been here since last summer, which is the longest I've ever been away. (Shamefully, I returned to London 4 times in my first 3 months of living in LA.). London is just wonderful. Maybe it's the pre-Olympic clean up operation. Maybe it was the early morning sunshine, before the inevitable grey skies gathered. Maybe it's just wish fulfilment. But I have never seen London look so lovely, all at once friendly, elegant, and welcoming.
That other one I showed was the old Sorting Office on Leighton Road. Busted! But they are similar in size. The real thing is just less charming, and more full of people who've wet themselves or are having a massive crack-addled argument.
Either way, my point still stands. They are considerably smaller than the great big Post Office near me in NYC.
Ah, London in the spring. Pollen in the air and stuck at the back of your throat, wind whipping your hair faster than that precocious Willow's, and long Bank Holiday weekends just tailormade for drinking shandies and yomping across Hampstead Heath.
The other thing I love is for once, having the luxury of time. I'm here for a whole indulgent week.
Far too often I land in London about 2 days before I leave. You do the math... It usually results in what TLOML and I call 'the Salt House free-for-all'. This is where I email all but 3 of my London-based mates and instruct them all to come to the Salt House for a catch up and drinks and their excellent fish and chips. I leave out the 3 because I'm disorganised with distribution lists and keeping email addresses up-to-date. The uninvited 3 hear on the grapevine that we are in town, and doing the Salt House free-for-all, and they are miffed that they weren't on the distribution list... but luckily for us, come along anyway. I tend to keep it fresh by making it a different 3 every time.
The Salt House free-for-all is brilliant. Lots of dear friends show up, and we shout reunion news and trivia at each other, and what it lacks in quality it more than makes up for in quantity. An unexpected bonus of the Salt House free-for-all is that many of TLOML's friends have got to know mine pretty well simply through showing up at these drinking sessions on a fairly regular basis over the past couple of years. I suspect some of my mates show up for the chance to see his mates (one of whom has an exceptionally handsome dog who is always the star of the show) rather than little ol' me.
The Salt House. Nice place for a free-for-all
Outside of the Free-for-all, I am lucky if I get a quiet drink or bite in with a couple of very close friends, before heading back out again. I spend my whole time in a cab texting whoever I'm on my way to see to tell them I am running late. It's an exercise in frustration and I hate to admit but has made me start to limit the number of friends I try to see. A NY-based British friend of mine admitted that he started to find trips to visit his folks in Wimbledon so stressful that he started keeping them a secret from his London mates.
What's been amazing about this trip is that I have had quality face time with some of my most brilliant mates. I've roamed from NW8 to N1 - including daily drop ins to NW5, to see my Wondertwin and talk colour blocking while she wrestles her incredibly cute incredibly wriggly wonderchild. I've caught buses and taken long walks and read the Metro on the tube. I've had morning coffees, al fresco lunches, afternoon drinks and chilled out dinners. And most of all, lots of good solid chat, for days on end. Bliss!
Local news is an acquired taste. To the newcomer or casual visitor, the local freesheet is good only for wrapping fish'n'chips. But within a week or two, the stories of local construction projects, fatal car accidents and library events become utterly, frighteningly fascinating. Pretty soon you start to have positions on local matters you had never previously considered.
Many months after I left London I still check the Camden New Journal for the latest on the controversial 393 bus route (out of interest, I was pro). And to see if my favourite letter writer, a certain Skip Murphy, is still sending his weekly missives. He weighs in on everything from teenage knife crime (I'm anti), the new swimming pool in Kentish Town (I'm pro) and vegetarianism (neutral). Seriously, every single week. I suspect if he didn't write in one week he CNJ would send out a search party.
I especially enjoy the panic stricken stories about local treasures which are under threat, like the scuzzy patch of grass by the railway bridge on Prince of Wales Road. Imagine my horror today on finding that one of my favourite local boozers needs to be saved, and by Ed Milliband no less. Yikes, this must be serious! On closer inspection it turns out to be a classic local newspaper scaremongering. The pub landlord wants to build flats above the pub. Phew! And there I was thinking it was about to be bulldozed. Ah, CNJ, you get me every time.
The Malibu Surfside News is a bit less shouty. The front page is usually about the weather. Weather news in Malibu is fairly limited, but they make the most of any unseasonably warm or rainy spell. My favourite is when they make front page news out the fact it's sunny. In the summer. 'Sun in Southern California summer shocker!'.
Once they've covered off the main weather news the Surfside journalistic team always find room to cover traffic on PCH (I'm against), the lagoon renovation project (ditto), and often Dick Van Dyke's latest antics: winning a Dolphin award for being an outstanding Malibu resident, in last week's edition.
A side note - where were the Surfside reporters when our Dick was being rescued by porpoises? Probably the best Malibu news story of all time and they did not cover it. Shame! Dick claims to have fallen asleep while surfing and drifted out to sea, only to be rescued and pushed home by a school of porpoises. Silliness abounds.
Ah, I'll miss the Surfside news. Wonder what's in store in NYC's local rags... watch this space...
