Don’t pity me for living in London

Londoners have had to learn, more than ever before, to master the art of fielding pity. We’ve been on the receiving end of lots of it this year from people living in the country who care about us, which makes it worse because we’re supposed to be grateful. I’m still smarting from a few recent zingers: ‘I do feel sorry for you, being cooped up in that small house.’ ‘It must be stifling there. We’ve got a nice breeze down here.’ ‘It’s all so lovely and green. Even London must be looking quite green.’

I bat away this pity that comes across as one-upmanship, bleating: ‘It’s been fine, actually’, ‘I quite like the heat — hardly ever want it to be colder’, ‘Yes, London does actually have quite a few trees’. But I can hear my replies ringing hollow to country dwellers who are convinced they’re living the fuller, purer, gentler life, while I’ve chosen the cramped, stressful, sharp-elbowed one.