It’s three years this month since I moved down here to London. I’ve failed to mark this anniversary on here for the last two years, so this seems more significant than it could. Although it is interesting (to me, anyway) to note that I’ve spent the majority of my working life here.

Moving down here was a pretty short notice thing, I think I had two and a half weeks from accepting my new job to getting on the train south. Mostly that was my own choice, I was bored of my previous job and even more bored of Edinburgh, having by then spent 22 and a bit years growing up, getting educated, going mad, finding employment, dropping out and moving home and back again a few times. In all that time I’d never spent more than a fortnight or so away from home. So it was a big wrench on my life and even sense of self to move.

Many things struck me immediately upon my arrival. First I missed the hills, then I missed the beer, the cycling, the people, the atmosphere, the ability to walk or cycle out of town in an hour or two, essentially every single good thing that occurred to me. I’d brought my music and DVDs and computer with me along with enough clothes for about a week, I had to buy some cheap speakers about a week after my arrival to hear my music without the use of headphones. Washing clothes was a critical operation at that point, I’d have brought more but I had no funds to move with so I simply packed all I could into a large rucksack and a holdall. I had four books with me, that was rather annoying and meant I read any book I could get free at work for the first few months. Life was spent washing, working (9 hours or so), commuting home and to work (3 hours or so) sleeping and eating. On a good weekday I was lucky enough to catch the news before I fell asleep in front of the telly. It was a rude awakening having been used to a five minute cycle or ten minute jog or twenty minute walk to work. Whatever spare time I had was spent trying to find somewhere good to live, whilst marvelling at the fact that it appeared to be summer.

I stared at maps long and hard before concluding that the only way I could stay sane and keep working would be to cut my commute to half an hour or less. Eventually, nearly three months after arriving and on my 13th attempt I found a place in Hammersmith. Somewhere I have the journal which records in excited scrawl that it had the best bike parking space of anywhere I’ve seen which seemed important as I’d also realised I needed to get my bike down from up north as well. Over time I found that going home semi-regularly was essential, as it was a good chance to remind myself why I’d moved south but also to move more belongings. I still remember with great joy the point about seven months after moving down that I finally got the chance to bring down my speakers having finally saved enough money to buy an amplifier to use them with.

I’ve managed to stay in the same place here in Hammersmith ever since and both it and London have had a fair effect on me. I’ve picked up some terrible London habits like going to exhibitions on their last day, getting very good at ignoring people on public transport and taking the place for granted. On the other hand I’ve been to half a dozen or more Proms, dozens of concerts, seen some amazing art, seen a giant walking mechanical elephant, been knocked off my bike, eaten in many nice places, seen some amazingly awful films at SciFi London (and even more good ones, seen outstanding theatre at the Lyric Hammersmith (bottom of my road), discovered many great farmers markets and butchers (and been to Borough Market a few times), walked back through and from South and East London late a night without being killed, experienced a few terrorist incidents and one artistic bombing of my street, taken up gardening, started a compost heap, expanded my baking abilities, discovered previously hidden talents for buying clothes, seen many friends move here (and some leave), made new friends, got closer to my relatives (who other than my immediate family live around here), seen tube trains fly through the air, seen an engineering train on the tube and filled my house with books.

Which makes it all worthwhile. I still miss my old home, but I’d also miss here just as much if I left.

Bikes! lots of them, and all over the roads of London and South-East England. Yes, as you might guess I really enjoyed the Tour’s start here in the capital. Shockingly despite many holidays in France I’d never seen the Tour properly before so it was a spectacle in itself to see a premier league race such as the tour rather than something simpler like The Tour Of Britain.

The Prologue on Saturday had an enormous crowd but thanks to big screens and a lengthy route it was really easy (I thought) to get a spot on the barriers. To describe the Tour experience properly I’d need more photos, but I foolishly failed to charge the batteries in my camera before heading out. First to come past is the publicity caravan which includes this sort of blatant promotional nonsense. Particularly cool was Sea France’s truck-disguised-as-a-ferry which had a remarkably good sounding horn. The most scary thing was the australian themed one with the kangaroo on top which featured a frenchman speaking in an australian accent, or an australian speaking with a french accent depending on which you noticed first. The mad dash people made for the Haribo that reached the crowd bordered on the psychotic.

After that there was lots of riders and some mechanics (wearing their Jeans and looking very out of place) testing out the course before over three hours of rider after rider setting times. The atmosphere was amazing with cheers and applause for every passing rider, and a noticeable roar for every British rider and Tour Hero. David Millar got by far the best roar of anyone, which he clearly sought to reward today with his daring ride. Best of all thanks to all the screens there was applause and cheering all round whenever a new fastest time was set. A special mention to the police who took turns between the French and the British to lead riders round, as my housemate noted our humble plod were in full leathers with high viz jackets whereas the French were in shirtsleeves.

All in all, a great day rounded off nicely with a great depart this morning. I almost feel optimistic about 2012.