Famous streets off the street where I work St James's Street
South of Piccadilly lies the district of St James's, a gentleman's enclave on the fringes of Royal London. The area owes its exclusive status to St James's Palace, built in the 1530s by that quintessential English gentleman King Henry VIII. Monarchs lived here for the next 300 years, and the royal court also moved in after the Palace of Whitehall burnt to the ground in 1698. It's not a particularly magnificent building on the outside, and rather cramped on the inside, so George IV chose to move out in favour of nearby Buckingham Palace. Only the Princess Royal and Princess Alexandra still choose to live here today, but St James's Palace remains the official residence of the UK sovereign.
St James's Street runs uphill from Pall Mall and the Palace to Piccadilly. It's an old street and two 18th century shops still survive, both beautifully maintained. One is Berry Brothers and Rudd the wine merchants, whose enormous cellars can hold eighteen thousand bottles of wine, and the other is Lock's the hatmakers, inventors of the original bowler hat. Almost as old are the shops of Lobb's the bootmakers and Truefitt & Hill, hairdressers by Royal Appointment to the Duke of Edinburgh (so they can't be kept particularly busy).
18th century St James' Street was also home to a number of celebrated chocolate and coffee houses, such as White's and the Cocoa Tree, which have since evolved into exclusive gentlemen's clubs. There's Boodle's once notorious for its gambling, there's White's with its famous bow window, there's Brook's whose founder was buried under the club floor to escape creditors and there's the Conservative Carlton Club, whose members had to declare Margaret Thatcher an 'honorary man' to maintain their tradition that every Tory leader is made a life member of the club. Two years ago, when the CountrysideAlliance came to the capital, hordes of rural protestors massed down St James's Street marching for Liberty, Livelihood and the right to shoot cuddly animals. The road was a sea of green Barbours and musty tweeds, and I saw many a young fogey pop into their favourite London club for lunch or a swift beverage before proceeding on their way to Whitehall. Must say, I haven't seen any of them since.