I consider myself to be an honourary Londoner these days, and feel fairly southernified (what? It's a word.) having lived down south for over a third of my life. I couldn't imagine living anywhere but London now, but spending just shy of three weeks in Lancashire looking after my sister's dogs has made me fall in love with up north all over again. Here are some reasons why.
- It costs three quid in a cab to get anywhere. Literally anywhere. You get charged that in London for even looking at a taxi.
- Everyone addresses me as 'love' - and not in a patronising way, just in a really friendly way that makes me grin a bit and want to share this with miserable Tube passengers.
- It costs £5.50 for two pints of Amstel in the local pub. LESS THAN SIX QUID! For two pints! After becoming begrudgingly accustomed to being robbed in east London for a beer, this was an absolute revelation.
- Proper, Lancashire pub food. Homemade steak pie for £5.95. Ridiculous. Even The Foodie was impressed.
- Retro curry houses full of utterly wasted Bolton girls, having chips with their curries and singing 'New York New York' to the entire restaurant, before introducing themselves to us and inviting us to carry on the night with them in Wetherspoons. If I didn't have to get back to the dogs, I absolutely would have and I can guarantee it'd probably be one of the funnest nights out ever.
- The mega-friendly dog-walking club that you implicitly and unconditionally become a part of when you step out with a canine friend. It normally involves being bent double laughing as the dogs gambol about the park/ swim in the duckpond/ mug small children for edible treats.
- Amidst the suburban houses, you might just glimpse two teenage girls rigging their pony up to a trap on their driveway. Seriously.
- Fancy new bars give you free starters, complimentary desserts and undercharge you for wine, then say 'oh don't worry, it's our fault' when you point it out, and won't let you pay the difference. That's good service.
