What’s it about? 

It was alright until that floppy-haired twat showed up. A textbook example of gentrification, Notting Hill cast off its regrettable reputation as down-at-heel to become a hub of record shops, antique stories and cool cafes. It was a broadly affordable gem.

Then Richard Curtis, a resident, decided it was the ideal location and name for his Four Weddings follow-up, and that fucked everything. Once the internet cafe on Notting Hill Gate became a Foxton’s there was no turning back.

Now you need at least £5million for a semi-detached house and you’re just a person, standing in front of an estate agent, crying and begging him to give you a mortgage.

Any good points? 

Portobello Road market is famous for good reason. Although the antique dealers carefully remove anything of actual value, it’s fun to buy shiny tat outdoors before seeing the same thing in a friend’s home and realising it’s mass-produced.

The road is also the home of two famous doors – the blue one Hugh Grant kissed Julia Roberts just inside of, now beset by moronic tourist snapping selfies 24-7, and the so-called secret door which is a door shape etched into brick.

Rumours persist about this mysterious outline, with some claiming it’s a portal through which visitors can see Kate Moss’ secret wild garden. Not a euphemism.

Beautiful landscape? 

The famous crescent-shaped streets filled with multi-coloured houses are undeniably attractive. Ask any dickhead on Instagram who believes these are mere backdrops for their content, not actual places where people live and work.

Interruptions from locals are unwelcome, unless sufficiently engagement-driving. And the twee, cute, pastel houses are largely owned by Russian businessmen who made their wealth ‘from oil’.

For more wild terrain and a return to nature, head to nearby Holland Park which has Japanese and Dutch-inspired gardens, a peacock and children with a preferred brand of brie.

Hang out at…

Westbourne Grove. Madonna’s preferred hang-out while she still had vestiges of cool, the undeniably chic, pastel-hued high-end smoothie bars and elegant continental boutiques are packed with the idle wives of the sickeningly rich.

Stop off at Daylesford Deli, which offers all the sustainable, organic matcha cashew cold press juice, orange and elderflower ham and beetroot sourdough your heart could ever desire. Try to live with the fact it’s Boris Johnson’s preferred takeaway outlet.

Or go even further upmarket at the eateries of the Notting Hill set: Core, The Ledbury, Sumi and Gold are all within walking distance, but they’ve been hard hit by the sanctions on dodgy oligarchs, and is the overpriced but fantastic food worth the risk of bumping into George Osborne?

And then there’s the Notting Hill Carnival, which given the wealthy whiteness of the area is now as incongrouous as a music festival on a Somerset dairy farm. Much loved by residents who have driven every one of its celebrants out of the area.

Where to buy?

You can’t afford to. The average terrace sells for three million. Not just for the house, but for the Maybach GLS you’ll need to take Thea, Luther and Ophelia from Montessori straight to their Mandarin and marimba lessons. If you’ve got £95,000 you can bag yourself a parking space.

From the streets: 

Mikhail Petrenko, aged 49: “Legitimate businessman. Not sanctioned. Step away from the vehicle for own sake.”

Caspar, aged seven: “Are these quail eggs organic, mummy?”