London, the one that got away — how I see the capital after we broke up

Seven years ago, London spat me out. This was not something I had ever imagined possible — until it happened. London was in my blood; people with my surname — and we're all related — have been in London for centuries. I had no intention of leaving the place.

- BY NICHOLAS LEZARD

In fact, I failed to see what the point of other places was. When married, the family would visit my in-laws once a month or so. They lived in Harpenden. Why, I asked myself, would anyone live there? Come to think of it, I would ask myself as we drove through the town to get there, why does anyone live in St Albans? What is the point of it? I mean, I could just about understand it if you'd moved there from somewhere even worse, but to leave London for somewhere so provincial — how could you live with yourself?

This, I am afraid, is a pretty typical attitude from a Londoner born and bred. I would accept the existence of other cities in other countries — New York was pretty neat, and Paris (well, not counting the suburbs) is gorgeous, ditto Venice; but anywhere that wasn't London was demonstrably inferior. I remember being taught the acronym FILTH by someone who had returned to her native city from the East: Failed in London? Try Hong (Kong). But it was the first three words that told you all you needed to know. Anyone who willingly moved away from London had, in some way, failed. As I got older, I started to meet people who weren't from London. This was an eye-opener. Then I started to meet people who didn't even want to live in London. My eyes became as big as saucers.

Anywhere but Croydon