I am in love with London. Wow. I said it. I did it. I fell in love with a city I have always dismissed as a cliche. I shall explain further in next week’s Trespass column. Outside my window is a laneway of little dark brick houses with white trim and neatly kept front paths. I have leant out my window at least four times a day since I’ve been here, in some sort of film-esque action, and shaken my mane in the gentle summer breeze. I’ve even found a regular cafe (not hard, I’m like a homing pigeon) and the owner is French and speaks with this ridiculous accent. Oh and the policemen, they’re so nice and helpful. And they ride horses, regularly. And I’m getting a handle on the tube and there’s a Primark nearby full of 6 pound sundresses and all anyone here has to do is talk to me and I swoon. It’s love. It’s true love. What am I going to do?