THE PERPLEXING CAPITAL

I had to work in London yesterday. A few months ago, the company I work for gave up its London office, and so work days in the capital haven't really happened. But yesterday, one did - and to make up for not having a dedicated office, I had to make other arrangements in a Regus type workspace somewhere near the BBC.

I found it okay, but standing outside the heavy black door, I realised I had no real clue how to get in. It was one of those posh houses - probably belonging to a merchant years ago, with capacious rooms of high ceilings and tall windows. Georgian by design, given away by the fanlight window over the front door and the white-washed limestone brickwork. I scratched my head at the intercom, wondering whether I should dial the number for 'Meeting Room' listed on a small plaque next to the dial pad. It was just about the best guess I had.

I find London perplexing. Eight million people living and working there, and yet somehow still the loneliest place in England. The intercom rang angrily as I waited, making me certain that nobody would pick up.

Eventually the door did click and swing open. A young lady, casual white dress, trainers, brown curly hair gave me a half smile. She seemed cautious. I explained who I was and what I was doing there and she understood, leading me through a large hallway with polished floor. On either side, white doors with round gold handles were positioned, shut firm, small numbered plates on their panels. The whole place reminded me of a posh dentists. We clacked across the tiles and she led me down some concrete steps to a brightly lit corridor - presumably once a cellar for barrels and caskets and servants. I sort of wished it still was.

And there I was, suddenly in the workspace. A large room - sofas round small circular tables, a blank TV screen bolted to the wall, a long wooden table with matching chairs and a dresser with a coffee machine and paper cups. It was comfortable-looking. Three large windows on the wall opposite, one to the left, each one of them offering a view of sub-street walls, with a glimpse of shoes and taxi-wheels and leafy trees at the top of the frame. And in the corner, an empty plastic water cooler.

Before I knew it, the girl was disappearing, one hand on the golden handle, backing through the door and closing it behind her. Who was she? Nobody knows. Was she there on reception? What reception? There was nowhere obvious you'd call a welcome desk. Could I find her again? As it turned out, no. Never saw her once. Was she an angel? Well, I've not looked into the theology of it, but I'd have thought an angel would be a bit more welcoming.

That's the thing about London. Nobody seems to know how to do that. It was the same in the other office - there the staff just slid a clipboard over a desk and pointed a pen at you. Eye-contact is not desirable, customer service barely stretches to a minimum, and don't you dare expect anything beyond half a smile.

She'd gone before I'd had a chance to ask exactly how to let Andy in when he arrived half an hour later, and, crucially, what to do about the empty water cooler. It was clearly up to me to figure out how to solve my problems myself - the de facto London way. You're on your own.

And that is the perplexing thing. How can a city so full of life and people produce such isolation? You're not on your own; you're surrounded by an ocean of humans trying to make their way through those wide streets and circular parks. Everywhere you look there are theatres and cafes and cinemas and restaurants and bistros and bars - places designed for connection. So why, London, why is it so difficult? Why do you make so many people feel so lonely?

I do wonder sometimes, what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to live there. I mean not now - it's clearly for younger people, but what if, years ago, I had leapt into the Big Smoke with a bagful of hopes and a gritty pursuit of a dream? What if I had had the chance? Would I have developed that same self-sufficiency I needed to replace the water cooler and figure out the workspace? Would there have been hundreds of small problems that I would have had to solve on my own like that? Would I have met people who would have smiled at me? Would I have made friends in that unfriendly place? Would I be a different kind of person now?

Unanswerable. Andy rang my phone and shook me out of my reverie. He was outside, he said, with not much clue about how to get inside. I headed upstairs to let him in. Sunlight flooded in from the street. He gave me a full duchenne smile, both sides beaming, genuinely pleased to see me behind that heavy black London door. Him from the South Coast, me from the Home Counties - both of us meeting in the middle, figuring out how to be ourselves, the best that we could be, in the perplexing capital.