We are in London for the weekend, J and I.

An anniversary treat. We're a bit unsure of which anniversary to be honest. It's probably 22 years of marriage now. Probably. Was it 1993 or 1994? No, it must have been 1993, when she was in Wales doing a postgrad and I was in Scotland selling books. Another life.

We're staying on the South Bank. Smart new hotel. Expensive new hotel. Very nice it is too. But it's one of those ones were they have condoms in the mini bar at a blood-freezing cost that's frankly something of a turn-off. One of those ones, too, where you have to pay extra for breakfast.

We don't though. We just pop along to the cafe at the National Film Theatre which is five minutes away. I'm sitting over my poached eggs and feta on rye bread [1] and thinking in all my years of coming to London I have never seen a film here [2]. And I don't think I'm going to get a chance this time either. J has plans. J wants to see a concert at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. J wants to see a play at the National Theatre.

We do both. I sit through a play about Pakistan in the 17th century which is beautifully staged but doesn't do a lot for me and through a performance by the London Sinfoinetta playing challenging modern music - Ligeti, Georg Friedrich Haas - which all sounds like the soundtrack to a half-forgotten horror movie. I'm struck with the thought that I'm nowhere near as cultured as I like to pretend.

Otherwise we walk. A lot. We walk up to the Embankment at one point and see Big Ben through the rain. And there's that little flare of thrilling recognition quickly followed by a quick chorus of "Cameron, Cameron, Cameron. Out, out, out."

Seeing it makes me think of the first time I saw it in the stone as it were. In 1986. Down on the overnight bus for a job interview with a fruit company based south of Westminster Bridge. Shaving with an electric razor in a scrubby little public garden near Tate Britain. Going for the interview to find the person who was meant to be interviewing me couldn't be bothered to turn up. I was interviewed by an office junior. Needless to say, I didn't get the job.

Hated London for years after that. Didn't go for years either. But the gravitational pull of the place is hard to resist. And I do like the South Bank. A public space that gives you culture, cafes, brutalist architecture and a place to wander along for free without any cars to knock you down.

In another life, J and I both say, it would be great to live here. How much would it cost, we ask ourselves. We look it up. Here we go. A one-bedroom flat in the new South Bank Tower. A mere million quid.

We'll probably stick to Falkirk.

[1] Normally I'm happy with Rice Krispies.

[2] We eventually catch the Argentinian film Wild Tales at Curzon Soho. Go and see it. It's great.