There is a rather beautiful faded glory to these mythical creatures, which flank the steps guarding the ruins of the Italian Terraces in front of the former Crystal Palace, which dramatically burnt down in 1936.

My all-time favourite place. Whitewashed ex-smokehouse where Fergus Henderson pioneered the resurgent interest in offal dishes. The restaurant is brilliantly unfussy, retaining lots of the smokehouse’s original features, and the food very British, making St. JOHN something of a London institution. The restaurant has a winery and bakery.

At the end of the Victoria line at the Walthomstow station, and then a 15 minute walk through some suburban streets with some lefts and at other times rights is an industrial estate. Through the gate and buried at the very end of the units where you are convinced you are lost and doubting it's existence at all is God's Own Junkyard. It's a worthy pilgrimage and actually sort of where you expect God would put a junkyard. The warehouse is a monument to neon and the life works of the late Mr Neon, Chris Bracey. It's littered to the rooftop with cables, plug sockets and choice words with neon epigrams, the whole collection is stacked, I suppose how a junkyard of the sort would be. Full of sex, religion, americana, sci-fi and nostalgia that all blend together surprisingly well, It's a visual feast that you can take in with a coffee and an open mouth. It is a gem of a place. It is really great.

Audiophile paradise. Boasting one of the coolest looking and beautifully crafted sound-systems I've ever seen. More listening bar than club, it has a low key vibe with a diverse roaster of talented DJ's spinning an eclectic mix of tunes and full albums.

Founded in 1828 the museum houses around 67,000 specimens many of which are now extinct or endangered. My favorite is the skull of a Bottlenose Whale from 1860.