I’ve never wanted to live in London. There was a time when I could have potentially been tempted into working there but no company was sufficiently hard up to want to try. It’s probably for the best all round that such a thing never happened. None of this means that I don’t like the place of course, I just think I would be swiftly driven out of my tiny mind if I had to exist within its confines for any stretch of time.
However, there’s certainly something to be said for the dynamic hustle and bustle. Trying to squeeze more and more into a tiny circle of land within the confines of a devilish motorway (I may have taken what I read in Good Omens just a shade too literally) has meant that while you can’t get size you can sure as anything else get variety. A cultural melting pot boasting all sorts of entertainment and cuisine at various levels of expertise means that our capital will rarely bore even the weariest of serial travellers.
But writers are a miserable lot, sticking to the shadows, preferably not having to leave our very own abodes as if we are chained to our computers (which aren’t half as interesting or romantic as typewriters but we can’t go backwards in real life now can we? We’ll simply hark back to bygone eras in spite of the fact that they almost definitely weren’t half as great as anyone makes out). If forced into the great outdoors much is made of the lakes or similar natural wonders when it comes to inspiration.
On the other hand, if you ever decide to pay the slightest bit of attention to alternative wisdom, try something of an idea spawning exercise. Find the busiest spot you can possibly manage, Trafalgar Square for example, and sit down in the middle. If you don’t think of anything to write about at least some tickled tourists will have snapped some excellent pictures.
Song choices courtesy of: The Script, Monty Python, Pitch Perfect and The Axis of Awesome