Like 99 per cent of Australians, I lived in London for a few years when I was but a babe. It was the 90s, which in hindsight was the best of all the possible decades to show up. I arrived with a backpack that I couldn’t put on without the assistance of a passer-by even though it contained not much more than a lot of grunge-era dresses and boots, nothing warmer than a denim jacket, not a penny more than 200 pounds in cash, and clearly, a death wish.

I survived though, as people do in that city, wherever they’ve come from and however they show up. Got a job. Bought a decent jacket. Fell in love. Got a better job. Made friends. Starting knowing the names of the characters on East Enders by osmosis. Did a lot of clubbing. Spent all my money in Harvey Nichols. Got stripey highlights done regularly at John Frieda. Picked up a faux accent.

By the time I moved home, my feelings about the city had run the gamut. For the first few years, no place had ever felt cooler, more cosmopolitan, more thumpingly alive and full of potential. And then, suddenly, I was done. I could no longer stand leaving for work in the dark and coming home in the dark. I thought I might not survive another miserable January. I couldn't bring myself to care about either Ant or Dec. So I left. But each time I’ve returned since, for work or holiday, I’ve wondered about that decision because, somehow, on every single visit, the sun has been shining, the vibes have been buoyant, the food has been exceptional. There’s no city that can turn it on as well as London when it’s in the mood.