London is almost like a nation, divided by which side of the Thames one lives, opines longtime resident and BBC hostess, Nikki Bedi, whose walks along the landmark river give her moments of meditation, a slice of nostalgia and a sense of the seasons

I have to power walk. Not like some hamster or gerbil on a treadmill in a gym though. I have to be outside. I need to experience nature and water. When I am in Mumbai my walk is either from Malabar Hill to the Oberoi Hotel, along Marine Drive, with the sea urging me along, or it’s the sand and dust of Juhu Beach that challenges my journey. In London it’s the River Thames. Walking along my stretch of the Thames gives me three things: massive calorie expenditure, a walking meditation spell and, more importantly, a sense of the seasons, which otherwise I don’t feel in this city.

A couple of minutes walk across the beautiful residential St. Peter’s Square takes me from my front door onto the fabulous Chiswick-to-Putney stretch of the Thames, arguably the most picturesque stretch in London. I love crossing the Hammersmith Bridge – its sparkling Harrods green and gold paint and cast iron work is spectacular. I look forward to the mud on the other side and that first glimpse of the incredible terracotta Harrods’ furniture depository. At twilight, both these structures take on a beautiful magical quality. I see swans (all swans are owned by the Queen incidentally) proudly gliding alongside me, herons perched on driftwood craning rather menacingly, and then, of course, there are the ducks. It always surprises me how the real ducks bob and move just like those yellow rubber bath-time ones! I feel liberated by the river and I also feel some kind of connection there because my father’s ashes were placed in a river.

The first time I saw the Thames, I had no appreciation for it. We had set out to achieve the impossible. Like so many provincial families we were making a day trip to London to see as many sights as possible. Travelling by train, en famille, from Hampshire to the capital, was in itself a huge adventure for a seven-year-old and her siblings. My first view of London as we crossed the Thames, was of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Everything seemed so large and so old. I remember looking right and left through the black cab windows, as I banged the jump seat up and down in excitement, seeing magnificent bridges on either side. I was fascinated by why there were so many of them and by their sheer enormity.

From Westminster, we hit Trafalgar Square along with a million other tourists and I couldn’t have cared less who was ontop of the column. I just wanted to feed the pigeons. This, of course, was before we had Mayor Ken Livingstone whose first notable success was to rid Trafalgar Square of its peck and pooh population.

Then it was off to the Tower of London to see the crown jewels. Well really! They were no big deal: I’d already seen more impressive gems at Indian weddings. My father said most of the gems were plundered from India anyway. Next stop was Buckingham Palace and I assumed it was to catch a glimpse of the old lady who owned the jewels, plundered or not. All I saw was a large visually drab building, a couple of guards with oversized furry hats and lots of Japanese tourists. At each sight we forced smiles for the camera as the image was captured for posterity. By this point, hunger had truly set in and we had our first outing to a proper Chinese restaurant in Chinatown for lunch. The stress of tubes, queues and taxis and four seasons of weather in one hour, meaning we had to layer and unpeel at hourly intervals, all took its toll. Madame Tussauds and Harrods still lay ahead as afternoon adventures, but we’d all had enough by the time the fortune cookies came round. The parents were frazzled and the children were whining and I wanted to spend my pocket money on a tacky plastic snow scene with Big Ben and a London Bus in its flurry.

Seven years later, I was at an all girls’ school with my London snow scene placed, for kitsch value, on my bedside cupboard. I was surrounded by glamorous, cosmopolitan girls from all over the world and had friends with homes or second homes in London. I envied their lives and their shopping and partying opportunities, because London was still an awesome city for me. It seemed to repre-sent everything I desired from life – excitement, pace, glam- our and a heady cultural melange of many desirable things. Londoners seemed to be so truly multicultural and had such an array of lifestyle and recreational options; I wondered how anyone could make up their mind what to do in a day! The architecture blended the ultra modern with the oldest and most history filled; the theatres offered appalling Andrew Lloyd-Webber musicals or experimental acting groups splashing around a stage of water, naked; there were films in foreign languages alongside the latest blockbusters. All just there, for the taking.

There was just so much to do! I thought you could never be bored. When I went to visit these girls I felt a little like the country bumpkin. The ease at which they navigated the Underground system without even glancing at the wall maps was very impressive. But then I watched with amazement and curiosity, as these girls, com-pletely took for granted the fact that they lived in Britain’s capi- tal city. They had no compre- hension of how lucky they were. They were even bored by the idea of sushi for dinner. I’d never heard of sushi. All these cultural stimuli had surely been given to the wrong people!

Now, having lived in provincial southern England, in amchi Mumbai and Los Angeles, I live in London and wonder whether I appreciate it, as I should. I don’t believe London is just a city though; it’s a nation. A nation divided by which side of the River Thames one lives. I know London is truly multi-ethnic multi diverse and multicultural but ultimately we all ideally choose the areas in which we live that are closest to our roots. I am enthralled by many areas of this city, but I don’t want to live in uberhip Shoreditch or Clerkenwell in a huge converted warehouse; I don’t want to live in the heart of Soho to be woken by the crack addicts’ dawn chorus, even though its clubs and restaurants are my regular haunts and being the core of the advertising and film world, its businesses are where I spend my work days. Neither do I wish to live south of the river that represents worlds of families who own Range Rovers and have lots of nannies; I suppose to water my desi roots I could live around Brick Lane or Southall even, but those roots are watered by my having a home in Mumbai anyway. No, I am a West Londoner and more specifically a Chiswick girl. We still hear birds in Chiswick.

I know my neighbours. I am part of a community. I know the local vendors at the tube station. There’s the flower man, Chris, who shouts ‘Ah Ha!’ every time I pass and I shout ‘Ah Ha!’ back. I don’t know why we do it but it’s stuck since the first time. He knows everything going on in the neighbourhood and knows everybody on my street. He loves to talk and I love a good gossip. Caveat emptor however, he will sell you dying flowers, unless you say you are visiting me! Then there’s the Tweedledee to his Tweedledum, equally rotund and weather ruddied, Graham, the newspaperman. When I walk down Chiswick High Road or Turnham Green Terrace, I know the people who run the shops and market stalls.

There are no garish homogenised High Street names to be found except Starbucks, which, incidentally, we should all boycott if there is the option of a family run cafe to sip our macchiato in. Instead, we have gorgeous gourmet delis and luxury specialist shops that are individually or family owned. I have wonderful world cuisine on my doorstep – you name it and I can taste a particular cuisine within 15 minutes. I have the best wine shop in London, terribly important, I’m sure you’ll agree, The Wimbledon Wine Cellar and arguably the best gastropub too, The Anglesea Arms. But best of all, I have the River Thames.

I don’t complain about England’s weather and I love it going dark at 4.30 pm in winter. Yes, of course, London can be rainy, cold and grey and no one ever has umbrellas when they need them, but that’s part of the experience. I also love the tube. So many people complain about the public transport but I am not one of them. Barring sprouting supersonic wings, how else could I get from my home to the heart of Soho, where I work, in 25 minutes? There’s just enough time to devour one of the red tops (tabloid newspapers) en route too. If there is anything I can’t get in Chiswick I’m within minutes of it somewhere along a tube line. The tube is also one of the few places that I don’t make conversation with people. There’s a sort of discomfort even if your eyes meet someone else’s and it’s unwritten etiquette that one just keeps oneself to oneself.

The English have a drinking culture unmatched, I think, in the rest of the world. Being a member of a Soho media club is de rigueur in my business and whether it’s Soho House, The Groucho, Century, or any of the others, between my friends and I, we have them covered. We can sit all day, if we choose, in wiggly-woggly converted townhouses full of little drawing rooms with roaring fires and dilapidated furnishings. We eat fine food, drink fine wines and talk rubbish about the world of media! My current aim is to become a member of Blacks. My first and only experience of it was through my wonderful friends and Mumbaikars, Fahad Samar and Simone Singh, who took me there for the longest most wonderful lunch ever. I need to repeat the experience.

Redevelopment in London has begun again, partially funded by money from the National Lottery: a good reason to put your pound down every Wednesday and Saturday because, apart from the fact you could win millions, the lottery has already funded some prestigious millennium projects including a new pedestrian bridge across the Thames. Ah, the Thames again!

My last cultural tour of ‘visitors’ London was with my god-daughters. We took one of the open-topped buses all over the city. I cannot recommend these excursions enough. I learnt so much. However, my two wards were cranky by the time we reached Chinatown for lunch and just wanted to spend their pocket money on tacky plastic snow scenes!