A cynic might have suspected that Boris Johnson's holding his most recent press conference in Bexleyheath underlined a desire long attributed to him to avoid the scrutiny of journalists. We tend to operate in the core of the metropolis. Bexleyheath is in Kent. Heavens, that's practically abroad. Undeterred, I worked out the (very simple) public transport route from Clapton Pond – the familiar 48 to teeming London Bridge, followed by 20 minutes on the train – but brought my inner city prejudices along for the ride.
Having learned from a transport police poster that "unacceptable behaviour" has been occurring in the gentleman's toilet on platform one – form an orderly queue, please – I took my seat in a Southeastern carriage and was soon sliding past gravelly inter-war terraces with pebble dashed exteriors and satellite dishes sprouting from them like fungi. The names of stations stirred mischievous and unfair associations with backwoods bigots and sawn-off shotguns. I apologise to Kidbrooke and Eltham; and to Falconwood, whatever that may be.
Having given an outing to these snobberies I'm even more pleased to have walked the last mile of my journey. The road from Bexleyheath station to the local police HQ, where the mayor would reveal his amazing conversion to the veracity of Met crime statistics, initially did little to change my condescending attitude to the unglamorous suburbs or to endear me to the erstwhile Bexley New Town, no matter that it gave us Steve Backley, Delia Smith and Kate Bush.
But as I entered Bexleyheath's centre, I stopped to make a note. A queue had already formed outside the Job Centre plus. Close by stood a nail bar, a betting shop, a Money Shop and a pound shop. I was reminded of something his critics say Ken Livingstone forgot – that outer London isn't all smug prosperity. In fact, for those few moments, it was almost like home.
