Sunday 29 November

There are many things about living in London that piss me off: commuting, people walking too slowly through the tube station, the fact that I'm bothered by people walking too slowly through the tube station, and so forth. But on Saturdays, after my jog on the common, I potter along the Northcote Road to Gail's for my morning Pain au Chocolat, watching Clapham's latest initiates into parenthood proudly push their double strollers into Cath Kidston, and London life doesn't seem so bad after all.

OK, that's utter nonsense. I hate kids and as my far-from-firm backside demonstrates, I've yet to discover the joys of jogging. I also think I may have developed a touch of the Madonnas in reverse. (Since when are prams 'strollers'?)

Anyway, my fast flailing point is, that despite the commuting and the pollution and the mass anger, London's actually a pretty cool place to live.

Take last night, for example. Mid-week, I had fully intended on committing to a night on the sofa yet again with a bottle of wine and the X Factor, even though the show is thoroughly boring now that the twins have gone. Lately though, I've been trying to be more spontaneous, so when my friend Jenny suggested The Boyfriend and I attend a 'Secret Cinema' outing with her and her other half, I begrudgingly said yes.

Hurrah for enforced spontaneity! It was one of the best nights I've had in a long time. We were instructed in an anonymous email, to dress up in gangsters and molls attire and meet in a mysterious location under a bridge in East London, with a flower for 'The Boss'. As we queued along a dark, cobble-paved lane in the pissing rain, we were entertained by a troupe of actors decked out in 1920s and 30s regalia and driving vintage, Chicago gangster-style cars. Once inside, we were ushered up a narrow flight of stairs through a tiny side door, which opened up into a huge Art Deco ballroom. A swing band and tap dancers entertained the crowd while in an old fashioned boxing ring constructed at the back of the room, a couple of 'mobsters' slugged it out. We feasted on popcorn and chilli dogs, had a few relaxing glasses of wine and watched Bugsy Malone.

Just before the final scene, where the gangsters charge Fat Sam's Bar, armed with custard pie-filled machine guns, the film was stopped and Fat Sam's boys ran through the audience administering plastic anoraks, paper plates and squirty cream. The film was put back on and on the compere's signal, a mass custard pie fight ensued before everyone piled on stage for a the big finale.

I had a ridiculous amount of fun and yet was in bed by midnight, sober and correct, and feeling the love for my adopted hometown.

The point of this story: switch off from reality TV (unless Jedward is involved) and say yes to everything. Oh, and avoid the Northcote Road on weekends if images of happy families have you reaching for the nearest gun – custard pie filled, of course.