HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN IN LONDON TOO LONG?

You say "the City" and expect everyone to know which one.

You have never been to The Tower or Madame Tussauds but love Brighton.

You can get into a four-hour argument about how to get from Shepherds Bush to Elephant & Castle at 3:30 on the Friday before a long weekend, but can't find Dorset on a map.

Hookers and the homeless are invisible.

You step over people who collapse on the Tube.

You believe that being able to swear at people in their own language makes you multilingual.

You've considered stabbing someone.

Your door has more than three locks.

You consider eye contact an act of overt aggression.

You call an 8' x 10' plot of patchy grass a garden.

You consider Essex the "countryside".

You think Hyde Park is "nature".

You're paying 1,200 a month for a studio the size of a walk-in wardrobe and you think it's a "bargain".

Shopping in suburban supermarkets and shopping malls gives you a severe attack of agoraphobia.

You pay more each month to park your car than most people in the UK pay in rent.

You haven't seen more than twelve stars in the night sky since you went camping as a kid.

You haven't heard the sound of true absolute silence since you left home, and when you did, it terrified you.

You pay 3 pounds without blinking for a beer that cost the bar 28p.

You actually take fashion seriously.

Being truly alone makes you nervous.

You have 27 different menus next to your telephone.

The UK west of Heathrow is still theoretical to you.

You're suspicious of strangers who are actually nice to you.

You haven't cooked a meal since helping mum the last Christmas you were at home with the turkey.

Your idea of personal space is no one actually standing on your toes.

50 pounds worth of groceries fit in one plastic bag.

You have a minimum of five "worst cab ride ever" stories.

You don't hear sirens anymore.

You've mentally blocked out all thoughts of the city's air quality and what it's doing to your lungs.

You live in a building with a larger population than most towns.

Your cleaner is Russian, your grocer is Somali, your deli man is Israeli, your landlord is Italian, your laundry guy is Philippino, your bartender is Australian, your favourite diner owner is Greek, the watch seller on your corner is Senegalese, your last cabbie was Pakistani, your newsagent is Indian and your favourite falafel guy is Egyptian.

You wouldn't want to live anywhere else until you get married.

Back to that rubbish