I fell in love with London when I arrived here as a teenager at the start of the 1970s. Straight out of an American suburban high school, I’d dreamed of the great metropolis of Shakespeare and Dickens, and I vowed never to leave. Why would I, when, as Dr Samuel Johnson famously declared, ‘He who is tired of London is tired of life’?
If I am to depart this city which no longer feels entirely like home, where to go?
Half a century on, I regret to say that leaving the capital is the very step I’m now considering. I’m not sure I love it anymore and, to be frank, I am rather tired of it. I’m a lifelong aficionado of big, bustling cities and for a long time London was the best. Countless corners of it hold memories for me. And if you’re passionate about history, as I am, then London is a vast tapestry into which are woven the events of 2,000 years. Sadly, developers have been doing their best to erase them with an insane skyscraper boom, so today’s London is an ancient capital as re-imagined by Chinese investors and Gulf sheiks.
The London with which I became enamoured in my youth has virtually disappeared. It is still full of cultural attractions, but these days I’m wary of stepping into one of the great museums or art galleries only to be lectured about our wicked history of colonialism. This obsessive national self-flagellation makes a laughing stock of us in countries which still take pride in their past – and that includes countries which have rather less to be proud of than Great Britain. Enough already.
I used to enjoy going to the theatre in London. But why fork out to see some new production when you’re liable to be force-fed yet more woke dogma on race and gender? I moved here in the first place because I’d planned to be an actress and had been accepted at a top drama school. During my early years I saw every great British actor of the day – Laurence Olivier, John Gielgud, Ralph Richardson et al. – tread the West End boards in brilliant plays, both classic and contemporary. Now any talentless newbie can get their semi-literate script produced on a London stage, so long as it adheres to the ‘diversity, equity and inclusion’ agenda. No thanks.
One of my long-time pleasures has been to explore on foot interesting London neighbourhoods and observe city life (just as dear old Dickens used to do). But our streets are now too often commandeered by hordes of intimidating, placard-waving political protesters and fanatical activist groups such as Just Stop Oil and Extinction Rebellion, intent on disrupting our everyday lives while police officers loiter about looking gormless. Who could blame you for preferring to stay at home?
When I relocated all those decades ago from a monochrome American suburb, I was thrilled to discover a city so cosmopolitan. I’d attend a gathering of 50 or so people, who would be from 20 different countries. The populace was, in the very best sense, diverse. But London was nevertheless still palpably English.
I was watching The Gentlemen recently, Guy Ritchie’s gangster comedy series on Netflix. Not my usual fare, but I found myself warming to it immensely. Then I realised why. It’s full of Cockneys. And it was endearing to hear those old-school East End accents. You rarely hear Cockney voices in London nowadays.
In 1945 the English writer Norman Collins published a novel called London Belongs to Me. For much of my life I too felt that London belonged to me. Those days are over. But if I am to depart this city which no longer feels entirely like home, where to go? Perhaps a quaint Cotswold village where I can find comfort in an oldie worldie tea room. Or a traditional market town (preferably with medieval castle) where the genteel locals might afford a welcome. But those options don’t sound much like me, the hardboiled urbanite, and I fear the joys of the (excuse the term) provincial life might pall after a while. Besides, we can’t all simply run away and hide. So maybe I should plump for Plan B: to stay right here, in the down-and-dirty thick of things, and stand my ground. What would you do?
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