New York is Groucho Marx, Blondie, Dog Day Afternoon, JD Salinger’s Glass family, Mark Rothko, Run-DMC, Sesame Street, Nora Ephron, the Guggenheim, Easter Parade (but let’s ignore The Band Wagon), early Madonna, The Royal Tenenbaums, Annie Hall (yes I don’t like him either but), Cynthia Heimel, The Cosby Show (again, problematic), Diane Arbus, 30 Rock, Cyndi Lauper, The Wiz, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs Basil E Frankenweiler, The Rock-Steady Crew, 42nd Street, Vampire Weekend, Pi, Ronnie Spector, Working Girl, Dorothy Parker, The Hudsucker Proxy, Cary Grant in the UN Building in North by Northwest, Bonfire of the Vanities, The House of Mirth, Philip Glass, and fine, also Andy Warhol and the Ramones, and Keith Haring and Studio 54 (I’d never have gone, I would’ve been terrified), and also – oh God, all right – When Harry Met Sally, to pick an incomplete list of variable quality and coolness. Jogging in Central Park. Ordinary people looking like demigods in Harlem. Sour pickles and knishes and rugelach, whatever they would turn out to be. A Greek shipping heiress asking Joan Didion ‘on the second day of a paralysing New York blizzard’ if it was snowing outside. Community gardens. There is no city I want to be my friend more.