I've just returned for a lunchtime amble around the southern end of the Isle of Dogs. It's a lovely day in London, so I thought I'd take the air for an hour and try and slough off the morning's bureaucratic ennui.
It's a funny pee-of-the-double-u down there. It's really isolated, being at the foot of a peninsular, although it's only half a mile from the centre of Greenwich. The housing is really mixed too - some rough-as-fcuk old-school docklands terraces, interspersed with gentrified town houses here and there. It's really nice when you catch it right: quiet, personable and different - very unlike London.
I walked past a few houses that were for sale as I pottered. One was particularly splendid - a solid Victorian mid-terrace, well-kept and in a nice street close to the DLR. So taken by it was I that I jotted the details down. This, it turns out, was a mistake. It's up for a million quid, way beyond my ken. Discovering you can't afford to live in an area that 60 months ago you wouldn't have kennelled you dog in is bruising to the ego. And it does prompt the question: who the fcuk lives there?
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