London, or: the math ain't adding up

When did I realise I couldn’t afford to live here any more?

As a teenager in my single country cottage bed, a recurrent dozy fantasy I would sink into was what my grown-up life in London would be like. The soundtrack to these (night?) dreams was usually Kanye West’s, ‘I Wonder’, which was suitably aspirational and megalomaniacal for an adolescent who thinks they’re the centre of the world.

I didn’t know exactly what I would be doing in London but in these visions it was always autumn, and I was strolling about with armfuls of books in a bastardised Rory-Gilmore-At-Yale sort of way. I was certain there would be parties, lots of parties, and friends who I’d have high level conversations with, about urm…

At this point, my imagination faltered. Not to worry, here’s my boyfriend! He was tall and brunette, I’d worked out that much, but his actual facial features never quite swam into focus, beyond the fact he wore glasses. This didn’t matter really; he was merely an accessory to my ambition. Which was to be in London, with all the books and parties and the tall, faceless brunette man.

At 31, I am in London and have been for 13 years, bar a six month sojourn in Glasgow. I’ve managed to wring a lot from this city, I think. A decently paying media career, an incredible set of friends and acquaintances, and the ability to travel far and wide for relatively cheap, compared to the rest of Britain. I have read lots of books in London. Not to boast but I’ve even been to a few parties. It’s been an enormously blessed life. Until quite recently, I was telling people I’d never up sticks again.

Then I started doing the sums.