IN 1777, a certain Samuel Johnson said: “When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
Two hundred and thirty years later, I think the same holds true.
Walking through the streets of our capital city last week with small daughter in tow, all life was present in its myriad forms.

Here, in no particular order, are some snapshots of our two-night trip last week:
On Westminster Bridge, a Cockney lady pressed a crepe paper and silver foil flower into my hand and, asking God to bless me, wondered if I might have a coin to give her. She wasn’t too pleased with the 10p I offered her – though I thought that was quite generous, considering the flower must have cost a fraction of that to make – and asked me if I might not have a pound instead?
In the hotel restaurant, a young Asian lad whose first language was obviously not one normally used in England had great difficulty understanding my request for an extra plate so The Princess could share my meal. Thinking we wanted more food, he gestured and looked perplexed until eventually he understood. I didn’t have a spare two hours to ask for a knife and fork, so we shared that, too.
On the South Bank, in the rain, a group of English schoolchildren stood waiting to be told where to go next. Unasked and undirected, they suddenly launched into a beautiful rendition of a sea shanty, harmonies and all.
Outside Buckingham Palace, an excited, besuited middle-aged man asked me to take his photograph (with his camera, you understand) as he was about to go to a meeting with the Queen’s Private Secretary, “and it’s an important day for me.” As he went in, a helicopter landed in the Queen’s back garden.
On the Tube, a baby swaddled next to its mother’s chest in a fabric papoose, just its head showing, smiled at us while its mother murmured to it in a language I didn’t recognise.
To bed at nine o’clock, due to sharing a room with a four-year-old who wouldn’t go to sleep with the TV on, and being woken throughout the night by the sound of the constant traffic racing past.
Outside the London Dungeons, walking past a huge queue that stretched down the road, and laughing because we didn’t want to go there.
Surveying the Thames from up high on the London Eye, mist descending.
Walking down The Mall to Buck House, Union Jacks flapping and flopping in the rain, and calling through the railings: “Lizzie, we’re a bit wet, can we come in for a cup of tea?”
People. Traffic. Buses.
Noise. Mayhem.
Friendliness. Laughter.
Life.

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