For a Briton, my first encounter with London came unnaturally late at the age of 23.

Until that point, I had nurtured a distinct and perhaps unfair loathing for a city that I had never visited.

Since then, I have made up for my lack of forays and find myself utterly in love with the capital.

I am captivated by its cosmopolitanism, and enthralled by the sensory overload that occurs in any given district: the sounds, smells, sights, colours, textures, speeds, and tastes spin my eyes and infuse my head to the point of migraine.

I love the abundance of cuisine, languages, art, activities, music, and drama that is available at any given time or place.

I adore the possibilities and pass Underground journeys ascribing life stories to unsuspecting passengers, while taking advantage of the rare heat preserved in the subterranean environment, before emerging once more into the freezing, arctic streets.

More specifically, I love Edgeware Road and munching manaeesh with jibni and za’atar from Green Valley, hearing forgotton songs leaking out of shop doors, and smelling the shisha vapours that escape from smokers on the outdoor terraces.

Each time I leave, I think I have seen it all, while in reality, I have merely scratched the surface.

Which is one of the many reasons why I am growing addicted to that old, beguiling city.