POSTCARDS FROM EUROPE #3: London, England

New Year’s Eve never really meant much to me, even as a teenager. All that forced levity. I’m no Grinch and if it’s your thing, then knock yourself out. As many do.

But this last one was different: we were in London staying near my oldest son Julian and his wife Natasha, and wanted to put the past couple of years behind us.

Two years ago the Auckland floods wiped out the ground floor of our modest apartment – a library/TV room and my crammed office – and since then we’ve lived without a downstairs, had our salvaged things in lock-ups and endured numerous meetings, e-mails and reports in advance of repairs starting.

Two months before we left we finally moved into alternative accommodation because scoping started and it looked like things might be happening at last. Maybe.

So a New Year’s Eve night out was welcome, but -- as the helpful Emil in Romania said when our luggage didn’t arrive in Bucharest -- “when Man makes plans, God laughs”.

God had a belly laugh at our expense: my wife Megan and I came down with some dreadful bug which rendered me useless for two days. If you want lose a couple of kilograms and all dignity I recommend norovirus. Megan spent a night on the bathroom floor.

But it was a wide, clean and modern bathroom in the rented apartment in northeast London.

More than 20 years ago when I stayed with Julian he was in a squat on Coldharbour Lane in Brixton, the last stop south on the Victoria Line. Now he’s at the other end of the line in an area not so much being gentrified as reimagined.

The new block we were in was modern, bright, compact and had art in the foyer. All around were similar blocks – one, two and three bedroom options – in new builds, many on reclaimed land.

They boast generous decks and have amenities and businesses on the ground floor: bars, cafes, gyms, the many competing supermarket chains and so on.

Some have views over the famous and expansive Walthamstow Wetlands where swans, ducks and other birds paddle about.

These developments have learned from the tower block atrocities of last century: there are cycleways and bike lock-ups, EV charging stations on many corners, walkways, playgrounds and parks . . .

Yes, there are homeless, but it’s a broad development for people to live in comfort and safety, within a walking distance of trains and buses.

The older London is still there in streets of familiar terrace houses, the ones with notorious British plumbing, low ceilings and no room to turn in the shower.

But this being Britain you’re unwise to judge by wheelie bins and broken paving out front, inside can be stylish period décor or contemporary Scandinavian. With bathrooms so big you can sleep in them.

All around us were Caribbean, Middle Eastern, Indian and other ethnic restaurants and shops, and more barbers than old pubs. Islamic people don’t have much call for an off-licence or pub.

Because I’d been to London many times and Megan had lived in various suburbs we didn’t need to do Big Ticket items (The London Eye, Tate Modern or anything royal) but mostly explored our own small corner which embodied multicultural London past and future.

Sure, we went to The Strand and Covent Garden amidst thousands of others but quieter London suited us, although the queue of puffer-jackets and beanies out the door of the fireworks shop on Hoe Road warned us the New Year night would be more loud than colourful.

While central London gasped at the light show, round our way it sounded like Fallujah under siege.

People knocking themselves out, no doubt.

Last week we made our way to icy Bristol under gun-metal skies. And, God’s mockery notwithstanding, we have entered 2025 with plenty of hope … and Imodium.

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For other Postcards From Europe go here