London

I feel a pull to this place unlike any other. Its sprawling, meandering streets. Its history discreetly emblazoned blue upon each corner. The Victorian and modern sitting harmoniously. There are few cities where within one afternoon one can observe a Constable, drink below century old timbers shared by Dickens, and stroll cobbles stalked by the Ripper.

Strangely, each weekend I abscond to faraway lands solidifies my love for this city. Most recently Istanbul, with its towering minarets and jostling markets, a city seemingly teetering surrender to its feline population. Or Chamonix, where paragliders crest noiselessly, the sun ascending majestically through frosted Alpine slats, a veritable snow globe brought to life. These locations bring me untold joy - yet they cannot approach the surge in my chest as I cycle along the Thames, the Houses of Parliament captured postcard-like in my periphery. Or the peace of mind from the shaded woods of Hampstead Heath, spying through broken fence slats the millionaire manicured gardens that dot its extremities.

It clearly has flaws. The underground sighs an infernal breath, as each year it records a new maxima. Housing costs have decided to track to the Jamaican dollar. Infrastructure creaks as Victorian plumbing is required to support a population exceeding 10 million, the seemingly best option to colour another darker shade of brown to our waterways.

The detractors lie eagerly, gleefully stoking the pyre of division, casting residents as foreign adversaries or out-of-touch elites. Like most diatribe, there is some truth; but to brush aside the riches of this pulsating place is borderline scandalous. I implore you, spend a sun-kissed afternoon in Regent's Park, absorb a concert within the walls of the Albert Hall, take an afternoon to digest a novel in the oak-panelled reading rooms of the British Library, attend a swing class in the heart of Brixton, go stargazing with a bottle of wine upon Primrose Hill, humble your spice tolerance in Brick Lane, and meditate on the pews of St Paul's. Once done, come back to me and let's discuss where London sits in your personal Top Trumps.

I'll leave it to the great Samuel Johnson: "a man who is bored of London is bored of life".