Whilst in London yesterday I went to see a group of entrepreneurs based in Kensington. I had got onto the train feeling fairly smart (most days are dress down nowadays, on account of so few people to impress) but, by the time I was on the streets of Kensington, I was feeling pretty scruffy. For this is a world where the only preoccupation is what to be seen wearing, and this is clearly not an area where I invest too heavily.
After an excellent, but curiously contrasting meeting, in a windowless room kept warm only by the buildings’ server, I wondered if the rents around here were a good use of precious private investor capital. One of the guys said that he had paid £140 for a simple lunch the other day; whereas I tend to think that a meal in a box from Pret is pushing the boat out.
Having taken a wrong turn, I stopped a couple of impossibly beautiful young central European women pushing buggies – Kensington not being a place where you look after your own children – to ask for directions. I was unsmilingly advised to turn right at Channel. As I did, there were two tall men waiting behind the door, presumably so any customer would not have to suffer the inconvenience of opening the door herself. One of them caught my eye before looking away and concluding, quite correctly, I’m pleased to say, that this is not a place where I belong.