This weekend it seemed there was a shocking lack of Saturday night enthusiasm. Since I’d been away for a few months London had closed down into a depressed ’staying in on Saturday night’ state. The streets were empty. Tumbleweed blew across Leicester square. Big Ben’s bell chimed, but no-one was there to hear it. Realising I had left the city to fester for too long, I knew what I had to do…

I stepped out of my house and took a breath of cold London winter air. As I did so, the pissed tramp living in the park across the street started screaming with delight. “Harry! Harry’s going out tonight!”. Someone else whipped out a mobile and started calling people frantically. People saw me as I walked to the tube station, and as I reached it, the streets were packed with party people dressed for a Saturday night out. By the time I reached Picaddilly Circus, the Christmas lights had been turned back on, and every bar and pub was full with happy party goers; music and people spilling out into the street. The city’s fire had been re-kindled.

I resolved never to deprive the people of London of my presence for such a long time again. Especially that nice brazilian woman I met on the dancefloor.