I would think nothing of schlepping from a Neil Diamond night in a pub in Bethnal Green to a Korean restaurant in Soho followed by after-beers at the Dogstar in Brixton. I’d visit art exhibitions at the National Portrait Gallery and watch German arthouse films at the BFI. I went to the latest pop-up restaurants in Clerkenwell and supper clubs in Hackney.
I shared cheap flats in Clapham and Brixton, having house parties for our closest 50 friends. I spent balmy Sunday afternoons at The Landor and The Falcon; Saturday nights trying out cocktail bars and clubs in Shoreditch, or feet sticking to the carpet at Infernos.
This blog was wonderful in making me visit parks and museums, theatres and bars. I thought nothing of journeying across London, laughing on the tube with friends all the way. The journey itself was half the fun. I had the time of my life. London filled me with energy, it nourished my soul.
But then something happened. And that something is inexpertly peeing on my carpet in an attempt to potty train right now.
Yes, London with kids is another beast entirely.
