This column comes to you from a roof, by a pool, in New York City. I am on a sunbed with a comedian called Alex I met via Twitter, eating sweets, being served cocktails by waitresses in cheerleader outfits. I wish my life was always like this. But then New York is a city that specialises in making ridiculous dreams come true.
I’ve been here two days, but already I’m in love. In love with the brash, honking, yellow-cab-filled, neon-lit, open-all-night streets. With a city that’s built like a movie set, and shows off about it. With the way everyone here is someone, and you know because they tell you, loudly. With the way people make it big, then slap their names across buildings; so I can stand in Central Park, between the Trump Tower and Guggenheim, dreaming of the day I’ll build a gold skyscraper and put my name on it too.
New York is a city where I dance through the streets to its beat, which is Frank Sinatra, Azealia Banks, Leonard Cohen and Jay-Z. It’s being reminded of a childhood I never really had (but then I did spend a lot of time watching Sesame Street) and a future I wanted before I knew it existed.
What I love about New York is you’re allowed to want everything here — and you don’t have to be ashamed of it. New Yorkers have no concept of coyness, false modesty or knowing your place. Instead, meekness is gazumped by ambition. While in Britain you’d be considered arrogant, here you’re enthusiastic; you’re not demanding but focused…
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