My Dad says that being a Londoner has nothing to do with where you’re born. He says that there are people who get off a jumbo jet at Heathrow, go through immigration waving any kind of passport, hop on the tube and by the time the train’s pulled into Piccadilly Circus they’ve become a Londoner.
A person who is tired of London is not necessarily tired of life; it might be that he just can’t find a parking place, or is sick of being overcharged.
London doesn’t love the latent or the lurking, has neither time, nor taste, nor sense for anything less discernible than the red flag in front of the steam-roller. It wants cash over the counter and letters ten feet high.
I had been in London innumerable times, and yet that day I had never noticed one of the worst things about London – the fact that it costs money even to sit down.