Ever popped into a Starbucks or a Pret-A-Manger in London and had the barista greet you at the door, rush to get your order and throw in a desperately needed extra shot of espresso, before you've even reached the counter? No? Quelle surprise. Despite the majority of the baristas and waiters in London not being English, there's something about the London attitude that drains the cheeriness out of them as they serve the disgruntled masses who trudge to and from work.

I'm painting a grim Dickensian picture but it's not entirely exaggerated (though London in the sunshine is completely different). I'm used to being rammed against fellow commuters on a crowded tube and yet completely ignoring their existence or shooting them dirty looks if they accidently touch me. 

As for making conversation with strangers, forget it. Forget any form of eye contact; you never know whether the person next to you might just punch you in the face. Walking around in London becomes a bit like a battlefield especially when navigating walkers (usually tourists) aimlessly zig-zagging the pavements.  The only way to deal with them is hitting them with my giant handbag as I barge past in a rush.

But here in Los Angeles, it's a different story. Why? I initially put it down to the sunshine making people happier, but in reality, it's the practice of tipping. Never have I been so aware of having to pay a little extra for the service for which I am already paying. I seem to be expected to tip for everything - having food delivered (even if it's both late and the wrong order), having petrol put into my car, taking a cab 5 blocks...the list is endless. Let's not even discuss tipping on a $30 cocktail in an overpriced bar.

I thoroughly enjoyed the extra attention in my first few weeks, but it's now getting a little OTT. Funnily enough, I don't actually care to hear about the barista's weekend whilst trying to muster enough energy to order my morning coffee. I don't care to hear about how the cabbie thinks the youth of today are a disgrace, especially when returning from a bar at 2am. And I certainly don't care to hear how every pair of jeans I tried on at J Brand were "just perfect, amazing for my shape," especially when that was clearly a lie. 

She may have relocated to L.A., but the bitchy London girl in me is still alive and kicking. Overly friendly storytelling strangers, consider this your warning.