I’m sorry to remind you, but it’s been just over five years since the pandemic forced London to close. Life as we knew it was put on pause, and as we inched closer to pressing the play button, some believed that the years after would resemble this century’s equivalent of the Roaring Twenties. In their optimism, they believed that London would receive a much-needed shot in the arm—economically, creatively, even spiritually.
Adorable thought, wasn’t it? Half a decade later, instead of economic prosperity, we’re in the throes of a cost-of-living crisis. A thriving creative scene? Forget it. Any jobs that survived the pandemic are now under threat from artificial intelligence. A hedonistic lifestyle is something I dream of on a Saturday night as I sip a pint that cost me close to £8, in a venue that can’t stay open past midnight because the residents of the nearby exorbitant glass tower don’t like noise.
As much as some may roll their eyes reading this from the comfort of the four-bedroom, Zone Three home they purchased with a £20,000 deposit back in the 80s, this post-Covid slump is draining the souls—and pockets—of Londoners my age the most.
I’m 28, ambitious and creative. I wasn’t born to rich parents who go skiing and pay someone to clean their house, and I’m not sitting on a wad of inheritance from a deceased relative I didn’t care about. As a result, my relationship with London has come to mirror the latter years of my last long-term relationship: we’re not all that compatible anymore.
It saddens me to swallow this nasty, lurid pill. I grew up in a leafy town just outside of Zone Six and found myself, my friends, and the career my working-class family consider “good” in the buzz of London. But the realisation slapped me around the face on a recent trip to Brazil, where I didn’t feel the urge to incessantly check my bank balance after each tap of my card and, rather than completely drain me, my surroundings fuelled me mentally and creatively.
However, for all that’s great about South America, I don’t want to live on the other side of the world away from the life I’ve built here. I want to live in London.
I’m not the only one trapped in a toxic relationship with the capital: almost half of under-24s living here want to leave within the decade. Many have already left. Unlike other major cities in the UK, the average age of a Londoner is increasing (from 33.8 in 2011 to 35.8 in 2023) as young people are being driven out.
Let’s look at the circumstances at play. First off, for those my age who weren’t born to wealthy and generous parents, we’ve accepted that the only way we’ll own a property is to Anna Nicole Smith-it and marry a rich, wilting 89-year-old. House prices are skyrocketing and salaries are stagnant, but it’s our coffee purchasing habits that are allegedly to blame.
The next option, renting, is hardly an attractive choice. Landlords have no shame in asking for six months’ rent upfront (where £1,000 is quickly becoming the monthly baseline, and that’s without bills) to secure a tenancy in a space where painted-over black mould is complimentary, windows don’t close properly, and the live-in vermin we’ve been told are “inescapable” are treated with more compassion than the tenants.
We’re spending an increasing amount of time in these “homes,” too, because taking a step outside requires us to cough up more than ever before. A recent TfL price bump has made London’s underground system the most expensive in the world—beating out New York and Tokyo. More of my peers are forgoing nights out because of the cost. Those who brave it have a dwindling number of places to go—3,000 venues in the capital have closed since 2020.
The creative industries we adore began crumbling long before we graduated from university. Every other week, someone else pops up in a group chat I’m in to share the news that they’ve been made redundant. For those lucky enough to have jobs, we’re either told to work remotely—and that we can’t stray too far from a soulless co-working space—or we’re being sucked back into said office for meetings that could’ve been emails, for companies that present 28 days of employee annual leave as a “generous company benefit” instead of what it is: a legal entitlement.
Generally, life in London feels increasingly corporate and miserable. Even the yellow reduced stickers in supermarkets aren’t what they used to be. Of course, every city has its problems, though it’s difficult not to get bogged down after you read a day’s worth of headlines regarding the capital’s homelessness epidemic, increasing knife attacks, and in-your-face inequality.
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My generation has been lumped with an unfair reputation for complaining too much. But if the quality and availability of what’s needed to satisfy your basic physiological needs—shelter, food, employment, social stability—was plummeting and its price surging at a rate you just can’t keep up with, I’m sure you’d have something to say about it, too.
It would be wrong to write this argument without acknowledging all of the reasons that make people fall in love with London in the first place. The diverse mix of people and cultures is unparalleled. There’s always a way to spend your free time (price varying, of course), and for a city too often cursed with a grey hue, wonderful green spaces provide some much-needed relief. Our daily lives take place surrounded by centuries of history, cuisine from around the world can be found on your doorstep, and there are some pretty great pubs.
All of this, plus the bank full of memories I’ve made living here, keep me anchored in a city that feels like it doesn’t love me back like it used to.
The turbulent relationship that I, and so many other people my age, seem to be having with London since Covid is because it feels as if the city is in limbo. London doesn’t know what it wants, and it’s making us question what we want as a result. It can’t make up its mind: does it want to be a city where young people from any background can thrive personally, creatively, and professionally? Or does it want to be a playground for private landlords, people with multiple offshore tax accounts, and their adult offspring who seem to run every corner of the creative sector?
Much like that long-term relationship I mentioned earlier, it increasingly feels like the version of London I fell in love with all those years ago simply doesn’t exist anymore.
