One issue with splitting my time between Oxford and Camden is the incredible density of cool people. They’re all so hip with their crop tops and their little backpacks that it’s pretty hard to compete. That is, all except on the one field of battle in which I am at an advantage: books.
Ah, the Saturday Morning Walk, that noble and appropriately capitalised institution. I was introduced to the rigidly maintained routine of a weekend walk by my mother, who (in the tradition of all English matriarchs) believed it to be a bracing experience for both body and spirit. Fresh air, I’m told, can cure anything.