Do not drive into London. If you would like to retain your sanity and/or the will to live, do not drive into London.

The congestion begins as the A3 dwindles abruptly from six lanes to two, next to the gates of Richmond Park, and you can kiss goodbye to third gear from then on. In a few miles, you'll find notching up into second brings a sense of elation, as sweet as it is brief.

The first hour-and-a-half of this congestion is free. Then, as you cross the Thames, they charge you for it.

The congestion charge works like this – people who are rich enough just pay it, because they don't care. People who drive company cars know their company will pay it, so they don't care. Then there are drug addicts who've stolen a car to get their next fix, so they don't care.

Finally, there are people who drive cars that are exempt because they run on batteries/ chip fat/a windmill on the roof and they do care and jolly well think you should, too.

So to surmise, the roads are clogged like a fat kid's arteries with 90 per cent self-serving arrogant gits and ten per cent bossy hippies. I took the train.

I considered, briefly, Michael Winner's preferred transport, the private plane to RAF Northolt, but the Observer's Lear jet was in the garage having its champagne tank refilled and anyway, Northolt is simply miles from St John's Wood.

The train service from Bognor to Victoria is very good these days, and from Chichester it's even better.

That's because the Chichester trains run non-stop from Barnham to Horsham, while those from Bognor call at the intermediate stations before joining onto the service from Chichester at Horsham.

Nevertheless, the hour-and-three-quarters the journey takes from Bognor is still twice as fast as driving and they don't sting you an extra seven quid as you cross the river. Then comes the Underground. As a country child, the Underground had an almost romantic allure. Just imagine; a railway that was all tunnel! Including the stations!

The reality, as one bundles down the stairs into Victoria tube station, is less 'magic molehill' and more 'mouth of hell'.

A word about escalator etiquette: only, ever, stand on the right. Do not, under any circumstances, stand two abreast, marvelling at the novelty of a moving staircase.

The natives like to hurry down the lefthand side, impatient to meet their fate, and tourists gawping at this mechanical wonder are, like doe-eyed deer on the motorway, imminent carrion.

The exit from the Tube at St John's Wood is calmer and more dignified. Built in the 1930s, it is one of the few underground stations to retain its original uplighters, standing on fluted bronze columns between the escalators to herald your arrival in this most exclusive of London villages.

You ascend into an art deco rotunda, to be met by the seemingly incongruous 'Beatles Coffee Shop'. St John's Wood boasts two internationally-famous places: one is Lord's cricket ground, the other is Abbey Road.

Forty years ago, John, Paul, George and Ringo crossed the street.

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