Since I moved to another office in a different part of London, I'm having to adjust to a whole new world of commotion. Mayfair, where I now work, is virtually the inverse of the City, where I used to be until last Friday.

It's residential: people walk dogs, take kids to school, they amble, they stroll; there's even a church next door to my office and a pub just beyond that. It's almost the country. No sirens, no endless construction noise, no squeaking taxis or honking buses. I feel like I've gone deaf.

The sumptuary law is looser, more casual than the City's blue / black mix and match suit ensemble. Mayfair is chic and raffish in the same breath, Chanel and ripped denim. It's affluence where the edges of these two rub shoulders. There's a lot of expensive clothes horses cantering through both of these areas.

More shops, much more than the odds and sods that fluttered around my old office, a paper shop, a bookies and a hardware store. But at least the paper shop had things I conceivably might have wanted at some point, say a pen, or a pint of milk. I don't need a Stella Mcartney dress, nor I've got anything like the wherewithal to buy a Bentley or a Porsche, but this being Mayfair and it's raison d'être, luxury, rarity and expense, these are what pass for local shops.

My greatest challenge is to rebuild the foraging routes I made during my time in the city. All those tucked away little cafes and takeaways that I've bought untold number of lunches from. I'm very particular about what I eat: more or less vegetarian during the working week with meat just at the weekends. It's what I call flexiteranism. I knew just exactly where to go in the city. Now I have to unearth Mayfair's equivalents. And so far there's been no glint of gold.