If they only could mend me like they mend my shoes. A three generation family business with its origin on Cyprus via Fifth Avenue, New York. They can do magic. I have been going there since I moved to London 12 years ago. One day soon I am going to have them make me a brand new pair of brogues. I will design the holes.

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I grew up in the countryside, and if you're ever in need some instant escape from the city, this place is like a time warp. It's a huge space full of over grown mausoleums and graves, feels like a movie set. They also do tours.

Cosy little restaurant with a giant kitchen island unit in the centre which doubles as a display and seating area. Open for breakfast, lunch and dinner with a focus on fermenting.

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.