So we're in the grips, or depending on who you hear it from, death throes, of the coldest, snowiest winter that Britain has seen during my lifetime. I sway between gazing adoringly at the flakes of snow and relishing the squeak of fresh snow beneath my shoes and ranting to anyone who will listen about how much I wish I lived somewhere with permanent heat and sunshine, with none of this irritating ice and sole-destroying slush. Either way, this bleak winter isn't going to get me down. Because when you live in one of the world's great cities, there is always something to do.
So, spurred on by a visit from friends from California, I have seen the dubiously-acquired treasures of the British Museum and learnt about rocks in South Kensington, taken High Tea and seen as much of the interior of St. Paul's as one can without paying the steep entry fee. And, of course, I have partied. New Year's at Scrutton Street warehouse saw the wonderful Boy 8 Bit and many others spin dazzling electro to East London's finest... and softening cement coated our shoes. The bars of Shoreditch don't seem to suffer from people's alcohol-renouncing resolutions, and Dalston Superstore's glorious sense of camp fun was in full swing as ever last wednesday as we quaffed wine and played, er, ping pong. When the snow falls, we just make sure not to fall down. Literally, figuratively, or otherwise.