Looking for Primrose Hill

I had always wondered where it was so I went to find it.
It took ages; I drove through an area with the most amazing posh red-brick victorian villas, so posh they even had their own atmosphere; they had turrets, some of them, and stained glass windows, and they were so immense and secret that I was breathless with awe. I got to the end of the street, and there was a tube station with, apparently, no name. Aha, I thought, they even have their own private secret tube station that nobody knows about.
Turns out it was Swiss Cottage, or Swiss Poshage as I shall call it from now on.

Primrose Hill materialised just as I convinced myself I was lost and should go home. I parked and walked up to the top of it. the view was perfect- all of London, the wheel, the Telecomms tower, everything, all lit up in weird hues at dusk. there was a group of young people sitting playing Beatles songs on toy guitars and a mandolin, singing in harmony. A Goth girl shared her fags with a tall Rasta on a bike. Three teenage girls sat beside me on the bench drinking alcopops. A jogger adjusted his shoelaces.
It was peaceful and restorative, and I walked back when I'd had enough.
Next stop was the all-night Tescos at the North Circular. The aisles were clogged with trolleys as dazed staff stacked shelves; me and the East-Europeans yawned and got in each others way, our faces peeled by fluorescent lighting. I bought twelve tins of chopped tomatoes and failed to buy catfood (sorry Charlie). The cashier was unnaturally friendly for that time of night- I couldn't cope.
Back in my car I chewed on an elastic croissant, and crawled back home thinking about the view from the top of Primrose Hill.