Like Ray Charles and nearly as short-sighted, a couple of years ago I moved to the outskirts of town. I’m in Woolwich, a long way east, where the river is wide and property is cheap. I live in a big tumbledown house on the hill, with trees in the garden and a great view of the City. I’m on my own, and the worrying thing is I quite like that. Next door’s cat comes round for a bowl of milk. She’s a pretty little thing, a mean-eyed cat with a green collar. I’m so happy to see her, I’d have to admit I’m lonely. I know you’re not meant to give them milk, she only gets a sip.

I work as a freelance journalist. On a good day I work for The Spectator Australia, world’s best magazine, which no one ever reads. It’s the best because it has the UK Spectator pieces, plus great stuff Tom Switzer and now Rowan Dean bring in each week. No one ever reads it because the distribution is pants. Also, why don’t some of you people advertise a bit more? Before the magazine folds.

On other days I work at the Financial Times on Southwark Bridge, although there were rumours it might be moving to the Shard, our spiky new skyscraper. The thing about the FT, I think you’ll find, is that although their reporting is world class, they don’t have a decent writer in the place. They think they do, but they don’t. Perhaps I’m wrong: Nicholas Lander; David Tang; Tyler Brûlé; Simon Kuper; Mrs Moneypenny.

Other days still I work at the Observer, now part of the Guardian. They do have good writers — Nick Cohen even writes for us — but the problem is, they really do tell you what to think all day long, it’s tiring. To see what I mean, look at their fussy, bossy, smug little style guide online, for example the entry on ‘the n- word’. Some of their writers are irritating too. Nigel Slater is so soppy and self-indulgent, he seems to think everyone loves him. Nigel, I don’t love you.

I love Nigella. She was at Liz Anderson’s leaving party at The Spectator the other night, looking fantastic. I used to know her a bit, years ago, when she first started writing at Vogue, everyone could tell she was really good. What I remember from those days is the wooden parquet on the top floor of Vogue House in Hanover Square, and the sound of the women’s high heels when they walked down the corridor. As she left I called out ‘Nigella!’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Do you remember me?’ ‘Er, no.’ I don’t care. A cat can look at a king.

Woolwich is full of foreigners and the white people are chavs. I love it and I haven’t seen a trendy down there yet. A Guardian git came down for the Olympics, he said it was ‘the land of fried chicken and betting shops’, he couldn’t get back to Islington fast enough. I put on my white running shoes and ride the train through Docklands. I get to my workplace and the people say, ‘Hmm, white shoes, bit chavvy.’ I get home to Woolwich and people say, ‘Mm, nice shoes. Then it’s crack open a cold one, smoke a cigarette, put some Ray Charles on the hi-fi, old 78s on Swing Time label, I play them pretty loud.

It was on a Wednesday afternoon like that, after The Spectator went to press, that Lee Rigby was killed in Woolwich. My friend Katie texted to ask if I was OK, I hadn’t heard the news, I didn’t know why she asked. I said I’m fine, just raising a glass after work. What to? Dunno, hedgehogs. I’ve got great hedges, where’s the hog? Katie said her hairbrush was called a Hedgehog.

The BBC radio bloke said he was standing outside Woolwich Tube. We don’t have a Tube. The Guardian man said he was in the London Borough of Woolwich. There’s no such borough. Something else they missed: Lee Rigby was killed off John Wilson Street, which leads to Woolwich Common which leads to Well Hall Road where Stephen Lawrence, a black teenager, was stabbed to death. It’s about a mile down the same road, and it was almost precisely 20 years before: 22 May 2013, 22 April 1993. It was the same killing too, sheer savagery. I’m not so interested in the reasons. Every axe murderer in the world has their bleeding reasons.

Since becoming an honorary Australian, or at least playing for an Australian team, I have become sensitive to slurs against my new countrymen, and you hear a few. But Katie went to Australia after college and she absolutely loved it, she said it was so healthy! All sunshine and fruit juice. Then her visa expired and they kicked her out. She came back here one dank March day and fell into a deep depression.