Why I love London Men

Romantically speaking, I came late to the English table, having been raised on a diet of American men. But now I have lived here in London for more than a dozen years, its men have worked their way solidly into my heart. It might have something to do with how laid-back they are, compared with American culture where working long hours forces a frenetic pace of life. Maybe it's that London's men will almost always choose to meet a friend over spending one more hour in the office or maybe it's because they laugh at themselves as much as they do at others.

Perhaps I love them because they open doors, confidently and without awkwardness. Or because they give us their coats when we're cold, hold our umbrellas and walk on the outside of the pavement, nearest the traffic. Or because they dress stylishly and aren't afraid to accessorise with man bags. Or because they pay us compliments.

I don't mean whistles from white vans or gestures from builders. I'm talking about good old-fashioned compliments.

American men used to do this, until political correctness beat the entire nation into bland submission. At some point in the Eighties, across the country, it became a heinous crime to tell a woman that she looked nice. Men certainly weren't allowed to compliment her for slimming down, even when it was obvious that she'd shifted half her body weight.

There's something charmingly old-fashioned about men's manners here, from London's taxi drivers when they called me love, or the man selling fruit at the market who returned my change with a cheerful "cheers, darlin'". Tattooed or titled, London's men heed a strict code of conduct when it comes to women, and I love it. I think it's a consequence of all the queueing.

The first time TfL went on an all-out strike, I set my alarm early and set off for the bus stop, dreading the scrum ahead. Instead, long queues snaked off into the distance and office workers shuffled forward in an orderly manner, happy to patiently wait for the next one. Sure, we've all been knocked aside by the odd full-of-thyself who charges through the crowd to hurl his briefcase at the closing Tube doors, but they are rare and universally reviled.

I like to think that such an orderly approach to life among London's men bodes well in the bedroom. A before B, mine before yours, that kind of thing. Plus, they help carry prams upstairs, they approach politicians with a healthy scepticism, and they view Top Gear and David Attenborough documentaries equally as cultural icons. They passionately follow teams that constantly disappoint, always get their round in, and last but certainly not least, they bring us tea in bed, just the way we like it.

Single in the City, published by Penguin, is out now.