Ahhh, that's my London. The London winters of my childhood. Of having a day out, dressed smartly, with my mother. Tea in Littlewoods. Lunch in a little Italian restaurant off Oxford Street. Christmas shopping. A visit to Father Christmas (and Mr Holly) in Selfridges, then the bus to Notting Hill to see my great, great aunt and uncle (Great Grandmother's siblings) in their very smart flat, where I would be required to sit quietly, speak when spoken to, and eat tea and cake on my lap without spilling it. My Uncle and Aunt were "on the stage" and did variety, so they would often burst into an impromptu song ("You're the cream in my coffee" springs to mind). Then we would get the bus to Paddington and the train home, with me having had a half crown pressed into my paw by my uncle.
Sometimes, not at Christmas, we would go and see my great grandmother, who had "rooms" in Lamb's Conduit Street. Once we went in, and she was sitting on the floor, drunk. My mother went to give her a hand to pull her up. "No!" roared my Gran. "Not your hand, the bottle." My mother handed her the bottle of sherry she had brought her, Gran pulled out the cork, had a long swig and then allowed herself to be helped up into her chair ("Thank God I haven't pissed myself this time") and my mother would put the kettle on.
I don't remember London in the summer, apart from running wild around Ally Pally with my cousins, yet I know we went there most weekends, to see some relation or another.