There goes the neighbourhood. Why Boris could never survive in my Camberwell manor
One overlooked revelation from the row over a wine stain has given us the absolute, definitive proof that Johnson should never be PM
I only found out last weekend that he’d moved into the parish. At first I didn’t believe it, Boris Johnson living in my hood? But it turns out the wannabe prime minister was actually shacked up in SE5 and I was unwittingly sharing a postcode with him.
I know the street well where Carrie Symonds has been hosting her boyfriend. I used to live literally around the corner, almost close enough to hear a humdinger of a row. Her gaff overlooks the park where I used to take my small daughter, there are tennis courts which makes it sound posher than it is and once upon a time an albino squirrel jumped from tree to tree.
The area is mixed and I mean this in the best possible way. Most of London is mixed, apart from the places that aren’t; the gated communities and the enclaves of Georgian terraces in smart areas where the riff-raff were priced out years ago. But a great deal of London can be well-heeled one moment and distinctly average the next.
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