We were in Whitechapel this January. My cultural associations with Whitechapel are Jack the Ripper and- er- well- that's it really, but there's a great Art Gallery right next to the tube station.
We drank coffee at a pavement table and a psychotic busker with a huge head of hair circled the cafe brandishing his guitar like a club.
I fell in love with the place.
Trouble is, we couldn't afford the rents.
But in one of those odd developments that isn't exactly spooky but seems to be verging on it, my ex-wife is moving there tomorrow, along with her friend, the Methodist Minister, who is being sent there by her Church.
All this is by way of explaining why my son Joe, who is a northern lad and doesn't want to be based in London, is moving in with us. He and his girlfriend Sarah showed up yesterday with boxes.
And here they are.