I have, for reasons explained in the New Statesman, just spent two months in Venice. It was charming and whimsical, soothing and a balm to the soul. It is, after all, one of the most beautiful places on earth. Still, about five weeks in I was hit by a powerful wave of homesickness.
I’d been enjoying the pasta and the canals and the churches but, really, none of it compared to London, which I believe to be the best city in the world. I am not married but suspect that is what a successful long-term relationship looks like: there are moments when you feel overwhelmed by your own luck. That love can come from a person or a city; there are moments when I feel overwhelmingly lucky that I get to call myself a Londoner.
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