When I cross the river, the sword that divides me from pleasure and money, I go North. That is, I take the Northern Line ‘up West’, as we say: that is, to the West End. My London consists of all the stations on the Northern Line, but don’t think I scare easily: I have known the free and easy slap-and-tickle of Soho since toddlerhood … nothing between Morden and Camden Town holds terror for me – Angela Carter

The clue is in the name: the London Review of Books has never been anything other than Bloomsbury-based, and though its outlook remains as international as ever, after 46 years you come to know a few things about your own patch. Next year’s LRB Diary duly takes an alphabetical tour, week by week, through 52 subjects indelibly inked into the capital’s literary (and not so literary) past, present and future, via the magazine’s archive. From Ackroyd to Zadie, carnival to cottaging, gentrification to the Great Stink, Keats to the Krays, Wren to Windrush.