I won't stop jogging in Hackney

The other day, I was invited to a smart lunch at Nobu by a group of women I had never met before. Over bento boxes and fizzy water, we introduced ourselves. Suddenly, across the table, one of these lovely creatures asked me the question I have come to dread: where did I live? "Um ... Shoreditch,î I mumbled, trying to sound cool, aware that everyone else probably hailed from smart addresses in west London.

"Gosh,î she replied. "Same end of town as me. Except I live in Hackney, which is more hardcore.î At this point, I blushed red to the roots of my hair. Time to confess. "Actually,î I said. "If I'm really honest, I live in Hackney, too.î

Until a few weeks ago, I would never had fibbed like this. Lately, though, admitting to being a resident of Hackney has become a conversational nightmare - especially if you are female and live alone. Jaws swing open. People look at you as if you have just announced that you have booked a summer holiday in Baghdad. I suppose they can hardly be blamed for this.

First, we had the long-running gun siege. Then, last week, a woman was attacked with a knife as she walked through London Fields. Finally, came the terrible news that 28-year-old artist Margaret Muller had been stabbed and killed as she jogged in Victoria Park at 8.30am on Monday. To outsiders, the place must sound like a war zone; no wonder we all wear combats.

But will I be moving any time soon? Definitely not. In April, I will have lived in Hackney for four years. In that time, I have only felt genuinely scared on one occasion. Coming home late after a party, I found a tipsy stranger taking a nap in my front garden. This was easily dealt with. I called a neighbour, who promptly shooed him down the street.

When I lived in leafy Clapham, however, surrounded by City boys in signet rings and Norwegian sweaters, serious trouble was never far away - and I barely knew who my neighbours were. I was burgled; I was followed on more than one occasion; and a man was murdered virtually on my doorstep. The truth is: violence is random. It can happen in any postcode.

Hackney's virtues are - don't laugh - almost too numerous to mention (though I must admit we do still want for a coffee shop and a branch of Whistles). For a start, it is still one of the only even vaguely affordable places in central London. The terraced houses - which fetch upwards of £400,000 - are elegant, and come with long gardens. Why live in a shoebox when all this space is here for the taking?

Okay, so dinner guests huff and puff at the lack of a Tube. But they'll be laughing on the other side of their faces when the East London line is finally extended. Besides, when visitors do show up, nervously clutching their Jacob's Creek, they always say: "What a pretty street!î or "What a lovely house!î This is partly relief speaking - they've made it through the urban jungle - but it is wonderment, too (or so I've convinced myself).

Then there is the fact that, for all its social problems, Hackney still feels like a real place, a community. Occasionally - imagine this - people will even say "helloî to you in the street.

There are those who have lived here since the war, and those who have just arrived. There are writers (Iain Sinclair, Nicola Barker), artists (every hot young thing you can think of) and actors (well ... Hollyoaks's James Redmond lives within spitting distance). Perhaps most significantly, there are immigrants from absolutely everywhere - which is why Hackney is the best place in London for noodles and kebabs (though the ridiculous headgear sported by some of the more hip diners may have you spluttering pak choi all down your front).

As for our open spaces, well, Victoria Park is one of the bestkept secrets in London - easily as beautiful as the green spaces nearer Buckingham Palace. (A man once proposed to me in Victoria Park, which just goes to show the effect it can have when the sun is out and the wind blowing through the oak trees.)

Attacks on women are always horrifying - especially those that are carried out in broad daylight and at busy hours of the day. But will they make me give up my own twice-weekly runs around London Fields? I'm afraid not. This is not foolhardiness, though it may sound like it to some.

The simple fact is that I would rather be cautious - go running with a friend, pay attention to what is going on around me - and hope for the best, than give in to intimidation and spend my days cooped indoors, watching my thighs grow ever fatter.

London Fields is not the most lovely of parks, but it is my park. I, for one, could not bear to see it - or its better-endowed sister, Victoria Park -lying empty and abandoned.