I have headed east. The exotic people and the heady mix of spices in the air have lured me, and I've moved to the sunnier, mysterious climes of E8. London Fields, to be precise. A place where all the women dress like foxy suffragettes, all the men dress like Billy Childish and a conversation about cabbage on Broadway Market manages to be impossibly cool. It is, in many ways, utterly lovely, but so far I feel like an interloper. I am not, never have been, am unlikely ever to be, cool. I'm used to not feeling stylish enough to be in a certain shop, but it's a new experience when that shop is a butcher's.
Everyone's incredibly friendly, and I'm very aware that it's not them, it's me. It's just the usual post-move acclimatisation, and I know I'm going to settle in splendidly in time. I know this for one reason. The indicator above all indicators for a place being all right.
There are bicycles everywhere.
And the bicycle is the most civilising, spiritually enriching, philosophically magnificent invention of all time.
It's the psychological effect of cycling that's so beautiful. The NHS could save a fortune on Prozac by providing Bromptons on prescription. Cycling makes me happy.
You have to be aware of what's around you when you're cycling, in a way that you don't in a car, or even walking. If your attention wanders while walking down the street, you're not going to fall off your legs. If your attention wanders while driving, certainly bad things can happen, but in the city you're relatively safe in a ton of metal, compared to the cyclist protected by a plastic hat. That'll concentrate the mind. And hurray that it does.
On a bicycle, you are utterly in the moment; there is no past and future, only right now, and being "present" is what, ultimately, we're all after. It's Buddhist, is cycling. I find myself content, believing in the fundamental decency of the human race and the notion that everything's going to be all right. It's impossible to stay melancholy or furious on a bike. Obviously, there are times when I get angry at fellow travellers, cutting me up or stepping into the road without looking. But it passes, as it must because there's that great big lorry to think about.
On a bicycle, colours are brighter, birds sing a sweeter song. People say hello to each other on bicycles. All right, I say hello to other people on bicycles. And they pedal fractionally faster.
Plus you get to discover tiny streets and cafes you'd never see in a car, rarely on foot. It's like a spiritually enriching version of the Knowledge. And that's spiritual in the non-religious sense. After all, one of the sounder arguments for the non-existence of God is that an all-knowing, benevolent creator would have put a couple of bikes in the garden of Eden, so we'd have had them from day one. Or at least day six.
So I shall be happy in London Fields, because if, as HG Wells so rightly said, "When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race," then seeing lots of adults on bicycles means everything's going to be awesome.