London's calling! And so is my bank.

I've found it. I've found the promised land. It's not so much milk and honey; more triple denim and tubes.

 My arrival at this glossy utopia was confirmed when I placed an abnormally large foot (I'm convinced it's a genetic design to counter balance my eternally expanding baby feeders), onto the platform in Victoria station. Only to be greeted by a sea of bankers and well polished brogues. Not a zip infested super-dry jacket or Paul's boutique blazer in sight.

PRAISE JESUS!

I was completely enamoured by the hustle and bustle, not to mention the stubble coated stallions that seemed to occupy every coffee kiosk within a five mile radius. I'll have a hazelnut latte and a clean pair of knickers thank you very much.

Getting the bus to the airport at 5am has also affirmed my suspicions that only the pariahs of our society ride on public transport between the hours of 1-6am. I witnessed a thirty something year old man furiously brushing his non existent locks for a good five minutes, only then to pull out a baby blue Nintendo and play Nintendogs for the remainder of the journey. It's times like these that I really feel for the shareholders in Durex. Kleenex however, well that's another story.

But then again I was taking public transport at 5am. So I guess I also fit into this creep infested category. Which I have no doubt anyone who knows me on a personal level could confirm. But come on, who doesn't occasionally wake up beside an empty packet of poultry after a heavy night of drinking?!

Actually, don't answer that.

 For all those shopping enthusiasts among you, I have two words - Oxford Street.

It's like they've taken all your hopes, desires and insecurities and designed a densely packed few streets where they can sell you the solution. Think your arse is too big? A nice pair of overpriced spandex disco pants from Urban Outfitters will help sort that.

I say this as I'm currently walking back with more knitwear than a retirement home. If I saw myself on the street I'm pretty sure I'd think "what a hipster cunt" and roar Coldplay limits. But I'm too busy instagramming the shit out of every meal to acknowledge my hypocrisy.

Alas, with three days left in this glorious city there's a lot of sights to be seen and culture to corrupt! Stay classy, because I sure as hell won't. X