Mostly when I go to London it’s neither the gracious Georgian houses with their sash windows, parapet roofs and heavy front doors that catch my eye nor is it the gleaming skyscrapers with their space-age curves and sparkling walls of glass. Similarly, I am not too bothered about the elegant white stuccoed homes around Kensington, and could take or leave the mish-mash Victorian structures with their bricky chimneys and ornate intricacies. Rather, it is the ugly tower blocks that are so innate to the urban landscape that they frequently go unnoticed, which really make me stop, look up and think.
But they are not so ugly to my eyes. I like their regimented order, the systematic spacing window to window, and the way in which they spring up above grassy parks like chunky cement giants, overseeing the world below. Indeed, their balconies could tell a thousand stories, lined with pot-plants and occasional bric-a-brac intended by their owners to set theirs apart.