Oh we do love a food trend us Londoners and one that is currently grabbing the capital by the goolies is Japanese. And not just your standard sticky yakitori skewers, hand-made sushi rolls and slices of delicate sashimi - but flavour combos that take Japanese tradition and send it down an unfamiliar road of culinary tangents and cultural roundabouts.
Caitlin Moran's article came out and it struck a chord. And then I got my guitar and struck a few more. I realised that because of the day to day work I do on Save Soho, I hadn't actually made any music for months. But out it came. Like a storm that had been brewing in the back of my mind for months.
Recent figures released by Westminster City Council in London show the terrifying rate that small office space is being lost to high end residential conversions. This is particularly challenging in London's Soho, long the birth place and home to so many of the country's great creative companies and performers.
Soho is to some extent, a myth itself. As Ian Board of the long departed (and much mourned) Colony Rooms said of Soho "It isn't what it used to be, but it never was what it was." Soho's seedy, sexy, taboo and often violent history makes it a great place to get nostalgic about. For many, Soho is hardwired into memories of their youth, the clubs, the all night drinking, the sex workers.
Let's not react too late to the next development which comes along that seems intended to make a ton of money for a handful of people, but leaves the spirit of Soho much, much poorer. Let's learn to be proactive when we see those dreaded signs going up about the next "improvement" in this unique neighbourhood.
JoJo's is wending it's way into the memories of Soho just as the likes of Blitz, Gossips, Billy's and the Wag Club have done before it... There is not a conspiracy to destroy Soho, there is instead a powerful belief in its endearing greatness and a desire to build on that and keep it exciting, edgy and relevant.
Today, residents of the likes of Mark Powell and Tim Arnold do their utmost to keep the flame of art and invention alive in conjunction with the annual Soho Literary Festival, Berwick Street Market, the art collective Vermilion Hook, admirable literary hub The Society Club on Ingestre Place and even the modern incarnations of Ronnie Scott's jazz club and the Soho Theatre.
Soho was built on sex, art and culture - and we should cherish its idiosyncratic creativity, not strive to stifle it. And don't we have enough alternative areas in London for those looking for a sterilised and family friendly night out? Dylan Thomas once called Swansea an "ugly, lovely town" and in many ways this is how I grew up seeing London. Its areas like Soho providing a beautiful dose of grit and grime in its cracked walls and faces.
Quite how he ended up working for a strip club in London when he quite clearly had a family still in Liverpool was never adequately explained - or rather, the explanations were bewilderingly different every time, all delivered with the driest of scouse wit. But one constant with him was his love of movies, and desire to be involved in them.
Even at nearly 80, Mario was at his corner table every day of the week, an instantly recognisable figure with his mop of white hair and his "uniform" of black shirt and braces, working away at his accounts, greeting the regulars, and rising frequently - less so as he grew older and increasingly stooped - to come over and share some appalling joke.
So as I sit on my rooftop looking out at the rainbow flag flying proudly over a nearby pub, I raise a glass to all those smart businessmen and women who've made my neighbourhood such a lovely, stylish, inclusive and fun place to live. That's got to be worth the price I pay for that last twerk of the evening a few floors below me.
One of those characters who could be anything from mid 50s to mid 70s under his unkempt, dirty beard and shock of unwashed, greying hair, Mikey told me he had been a part of the Soho sex trade since he was a teenage lorry driver, bringing in box loads of porn from Amsterdam, the fruit and veg of the performers buried under a mountain of actual fruit and veg.
You don't very often see pimps visibly plying their trade in my neighbourhood these days, which is both a sign of Westminster Council's success in its relentless campaign to crack down on the sex trade, and, perhaps, an affirmation of what the local girls proclaimed loudly and with varying degrees of success in court, after the dodgy police raids of last December.
The ladies on the door of the lap dancing bar opposite my flat in Soho are all of a certain age. Their dress code is "smart casual" Top Shop, rather than the thigh-flashing micro skirts favoured by young East European girls in more up-market establishments, and they're all "real" women making a living, with a healthy sense of humour and cynicism.