One of London's seediest and best-loved districts has increasingly been making headlines of late. Soho as we know it, the scene of sex workers, pleasure seekers and Disco lovers alike, is under threat. Book shops such as Harmony - home to material a little more risque than what you'd find in your average Waterstones - along with cabaret clubs like the much-loved Madame Jojo's are out, and the multi-million pound flats and shiny glass office spaces are in. Not content with having stamped out the air of untamed creativity and all round shabby-chicness of other London districts (see: Shoreditch), the local council has approved plans for Soho's multi-million redevelopment, apparently keen to usher in those 'young professionals' that pretty much put paid to any trace of an area's original charm.
In response, the 'Save Soho' petition has been launched, garnering the signatures of big-name stars including Benedict Cumberbatch, Idris Elba and Stephen Fry. As the ever-eloquent Fry puts it: "Soho is irreplaceable with its unique raffishness, a hint of sleaze and wickedness. The current rush to smarten up, to maximise profits by kicking out the old, would spell disaster to the magical realm."
Judging from the content of his latest autobiography (which details incidents including the actor snorting coke everywhere from Buckingham Palace to the BBC), Fry presumably has plenty of Soho-centric anecdotes up his sleeve. And which self-respecting Londoner doesn't? Mine might be somewhat tamer than the likes of Fry and countless other frequenters of London's red light district, but I have memories of Soho that I treasure - now more so than ever - knowing that for future generations, it could end up as yet another of the city's steel-heavy centres of bland.
So here they are, a few of the times that just like millions before me, Soho stole my heart...
Stifling giggles as the heavily-tattooed and clearly stoned waitress at Soho's 'Secret Tea room', up the stairs of the Coach and Horses, dropped a full pot of tea and merely sank into a nearby chair and contemplated the splashes it had made over the doilies.
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Tasting salty tears of laughter, watching Micky Flanagan do stand up in a space not much bigger than my living room, before he'd become acquainted with the likes of the O2 arena.
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Losing all of my friends post-tequila shot, before possibly my favourite dance floor moment of all time occurred, as the Staple Singers' Mr Big Stuff played, followed by the Jackson Sisters' I Believe in Miracles, and I experienced a taste of the 70s, solo, in 2013.
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Watching Northern Soul at the brilliant Curzon cinema, realising that the closest I'd ever come to those 60s nights of all-out dancing had happened mere metres away, in Madame Jojo's.
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Tasting the best noodles of my life in China town. At about 4am, when the place was still heaving, and people struggled to find a seat amongst tables of those slumped over or chattering away, another successful Soho night under their belts.
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Walking past actors more commonly seen in BAFTA shortlists and musicians with a Brit or three to their name, marveling to think we call the same city home.
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Fishing out skirts and dresses that would once have cost hundreds from the bargain bins of dimly lit vintage shops, relishing the knowledge that I wouldn't spot ten identikit outfits the next time I went out.
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Turning up to a club that turned out to be closed for the night, before befriending the solo gay guy from Amsterdam standing despondently outside, who went on to provide us with an acrobatic pole dancing display.
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