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.

My favourite restaurant as the moment which was a former boxing hall. You sit on the old spectating seats and get served butter chicken on pine cones which infuse their flavour into the food. A really different experience.

Simple, Authentic and Delicious dishes made with excellent produce. Makes you feel like you are on holiday. 

No better breakfast in London, luckily just five minutes from my office.

Not been in many years, but spent a large part of my childhood watching people row and sail back and forth. It freezes over in winter and in February 1893, Jack Selby drove a coach and four horses across the reservoir.