For the first time in five years, driving “home” is an anti-clockwise swoop around the North Circular, rather than the other way around. I’ve swapped the John Lewis in Stratford Westfield for the John Lewis in Brent Cross; Shalom bagels for Gail’s Bakery’s babka, and Arissa Beauty for House of Nails on Fortis Green.

Sorry, Essex friends, I’ve gone to the Dark Side. I’ve moved back “North”.

As regular readers may recall, I’m a Chigwell girl born and bred. But after leaving home in the late 80s to study at UCL (via a year at Manchester), I stayed in the capital, moving gradually outwards as my household expanded, from Camden to Highgate and then East Finchley, where I lived with my family for 16 years. Then came the end of my marriage and a simultaneous period of ill-health, characterised by crushing insomnia.

When I was at my lowest, my dear old dad opened his Chigwell home to me. In summer 2016, I moved home in a dreadful state, mournful in the back of a taxi, clutching just an overnight bag. I really thought that was “it” for me. Regression to childhood at the age of 48.

But, I wasn’t done yet. In the next half decade, I learned to sleep again. In the safe haven of my dad’s Essex home, I slowly began recovering my strength. I picked up my work as a journalist and author again, fixed fractured relationships with friends and family, and met a lovely man who currently lives overseas. Having been in the depths of despair, I saw glimmers of a new act, a “second life”.

Then, earlier this month — divorce and conveyance finally behind me (I’m sure any lawyers reading this are very nice, but I never want to speak to a solicitor again) I bought myself a flat up in Muswell Hill.

And as I type, sitting on my new Vispring mattress on the oak floor of this glorious 1920s Arts and Crafts mansion block, it really does feel like I’m starting again. That my “second life” has just begun. On that windy Friday earlier this month, as I grabbed the cool metal of the keys to my new home, I was transfused with energy and optimism.

And so, I am back. Hello again, Edwardian homes, the Everyman cinema, Highgate Wood, Ally Pally. Bookshops, red buses, and more cafés serving oatmeal lattes than you can shake a stick at.

But please, don’t you diss Essex: at least, not on my watch. The last five and a half years definitely made me appreciative of my home county. First of all, there’s the physical beauty. Chigwell was a wonderful place “to pandemic” — in my father’s big, light house and fabulous garden. The fields at the top of Vicarage Road made for a wonderful place to walk and contemplate the weirdness of it all, to “breathe”, in a way, that in tightly-packed north London I may not have done.

Mention of “my field” (as it came to be known) offers the perfect segue for me to talk about H, my friend and walking partner, whom I only met when I moved back to Chigwell. H and her husband D were lifelines in difficult times, and I hope they will stay life-long friends.
Over the past five years, I have really come to appreciate the sunny toughness of my fellow Essexers. My dad’s friends — who, like my parents, started out in the East End — are a hoot. I do believe that the “bagel” brigade (Jews born and raised in North London) have a snobbish attitude to the “beigel” brigade’ (Jews who stayed East) and they really do need to think again.

I loved the Chigwell people who became friends: in the hairdressers, the nail bar, Space boutique — even the grumpy servers in the Village Deli were starting to crack by the end. It took me several years to feel brave enough to go to Sheesh, the restaurant set up in Alan Sugar’s King’s Head. The decor is faux-croc Las Vegas, the cosmetic enhancements of one’s fellow diners is something to behold, but the food is delicious, and I enjoyed the best Pina Colada on the planet.

It’s true that here in north London, the cars aren’t as large or as flashy as they are in Chigwell. The faces in the streets are also more natural: barely a duck-filled lip or a laminated eyebrow to be seen. And certainly the vowels are more rounded in Muswell Hill or Highgate. But you can bet the laughter isn’t as loud.