The terrifying financial burdens that come with living in London, the sense of it increasingly becoming a steel and glass playground for the super wealthy, can make us ordinary Londoners feel disenfranchised. The huge pressure to achieve and succeed, if not just survive, leaves little scope for moments of awe and genuine peace in our frantic minds.
I've decided, in the deluded spirit of making resolutions in the new year, to try and change an aspect of my lifestyle; I'm going to dip my toe in the water of an attempt to be kind to myself. My problem is I can't tell when I'm being nice to myself and when am I just being a lazy pig, so I never stop with the self-flagellation to keep going. If I thought about what's the greatest thing I could do for myself, I'd tell you it was 'to never have to get out of bed'. I'm my happiest when I have a virus and have an excuse to lie there without the nagging mother in my brain screaming, "Get your ass up and out".
It may seem counter-intuitive, but most of us don't walk correctly. It's not our fault, and it's not our parent's fault. Unless your dad is someone like Olympic gymnast Louis Smith or your mum is someone like Olympic heptathlete Jessica Ennis, then you're probably not applying scientific principles to your day-to-day walking.