More to this than meets the eye

That vacuuming is a fulfilling hobby and something my mother enjoys doing.

One cannot exist on dried packet noodles alone.

It isn't possible to sleep sitting up without one's lecturer noticing.

London is the centre of everything.

This last one is particularly noteworthy, and it has only been in the last few weeks that I've come to realise my error.

London likes to think it's the centre of everything, and for the most part it is humoured.

It's where the Queen is. It's where the Queen musical is.

And it's where the most migraine-inducing retail jungle on earth, also known as Topshop Oxford Circus, resides.

All lead characters in all chick-lit books (that reliable and accurate source of reality) always live in London.

As did Paddington Bear and the Wombles, just so the behatted-animal sector is represented (though I can't verify how many times Great Uncle Bulgaria visited Koko on a Friday night).

But actually, I think the whole notion is a big lie, fabricated mainly by the Home Counties, to ensure we're all so busy being 'it' that we don't all go on weekend breaks to the countryside and clog up their land with our enormous handbags.

I'm sure Worthing is in on the secret, too, lapping up Londinium's musical exports so that you can keep the Bucks Fizz and Eagles tribute acts to yourselves.

These are musical exports that I am barely aware of, of course, because I no longer watch TV, listen to the radio or read other people's NME on the train.

I live in a bubble. And a cloudy, polluted bubble at that.

I was forced to realise how truly out of touch I am the other day when my mother rang and instead of quizzing me on my nutritional habits like a normal parent, her opening gambit was "I'm sick to death of this Mika, aren't you?"

To which I had to shamefully reply that I had no idea who she was talking about . . . but yes, I am still taking my multi-vitamins.

Quite scary is the idea that an artiste can complete the loop of emerging from obscurity, attracting a niche audience, earning some credibility, earning some fame, breaking into the mainstream, getting overplayed on Radio 2 and getting hyped enough for my mum to have had her fill, all without even registering on my radar.

Similarly, she was keen to discuss the political ins and outs of Celebrity Big Brother a few weeks ago when I had to admit I was more informed on the political ins and outs of Dickens' Bleak House than I was on Jade Goody's latest antics.

Which is saying rather a lot, as naturally I never finished the book.

I never finished the book because, at the small expense of my English degree and possibly a few morals, I've devoted all my reading energy to my only real source of media enlightenment '“ London Lite.

Essentially just a makeshift umbrella/seat cover/filling afternoon snack with words and pictures on it, London Lite is about as trashy as reading matter gets without needing to buy it under a counter.

It's free, for a start, handed out every 30 seconds down the road by individuals with the kind of sad, imploring eyes that tell you a logoed silver bomber jacket and jaunty baseball cap are not job perks that compensate for being snarled at by 3,000 commuters every afternoon.

Distributors are treated in the same manner as those clipboard-wielding charity campaigners, despite the obvious variance being that these ones don't want my bank details.

Or even a chat. They just want to enrich my life with the knowledge that Bianca Gasgoine wasn't wearing any knickers in a taxi last night and far be it from me to deny them that pleasure.

It might be manageable if London Lite was the only one of its species, but alas, there are competitors.

There's thelondonpaper, for days when I'm feeling slightly more discerning (don't let the lowercase letters fool you, sometimes they actually squeeze some news in), and Metro, if I happen to venture into briefcase turf south of Oxford Street.

On one recent walk up Charing Cross Road, my companion was dismayed to find I'd picked up every variety of every free paper along the way and took it as a snub on their company. Which might have been forgivable had I not been on a date at the time.

You see, London cannot be the centre of everything, because we're all too busy reading free papers talking about London being the centre of everything.

Which it can't be, because we're all too busy reading free papers . . . hmm.

So, folks, be thankful you have this quality publication, and that nobody's trying to condense your life down into 'Lite' format.

Worthing, full-fat, and not a silver bomber jacket in sight.