Don't Eat Ramen at Harrods

London has always struck me as a strange city. This could be largely the hateful bias of being born here (there is insurmountable joy to be found in mocking your own home), but it always seemed so much more segmented than other major cities.

A street in Kensington.

There's central London in all its particular flavours. The now-drowned gothic and alternative market in Camden that my friends would all make the trip to on weekends because we needed to see five thousand Slipknot hoodies, peruse a dark-coloured tutu collection, and marvel at the tantalising blacklight in Cyberdog. The red brick buildings and high street brimming with monotone designer goods in Chelsea. The crunchy concrete of the Barbican.

The Michelin Man was actually born here in the Michelin Building.

And then there's the truest London of all - the suburban sprawl, the looming presence of a Wetherspoons, and a stark brown brick emptiness. Sometimes, you are just too far from a Tesco to be really happy. London may have an excellent bus network, but there is something to be said about the sheer dullness of having to take an hour and a half to visit a friend who lives in London when you are already in London. It's an unavoidable downside to living in a big city, yes, but the big aesthetic and infrastructural differences borough by borough often bring the feel of the whole place down to its lowest common denominator.

What I'm saying is, Tulse Hill is not real, and you shouldn't go there.

But sometimes it's nice to enter central London, to pretend you are the kind of person who doesn't wince at paying £9 for a pint of beer, and to say: wow, a red telephone box. 

Go on, make a call.

So I had ramen at Harrods the other day, which was about £30, and good, but not amazing. The broth was a little bit thin and watery for my taste, but there were two delicious eggs in there, at least. The service, though, was pretty bad. When everyone is sitting at a circular bar around the staff, you'd think service would be attentive and snappy, because they can all really see you, but no, not really. It took a while to get a glass of water at the start of the meal, and that pretty much set the tone.

Being in the pretty dining hall and looking up at the mosaics of birds was nice, but I probably wouldn't go back. It's just a one-time thing. Instead, there's a Greene King pub down the road called The Bunch of Grapes. The fishcakes there are good. I might go there. It was nice and empty when I ate the fishcakes, which really enhanced my enjoyment. A woman should be as close to alone as possible to enjoy her fishcakes.

Me holding some swim shorts. Don't ask any questions please.