I GET fed up with people whinging about Worcester. I suppose we’ve all been guilty of it at some point, myself included. But Worcester is a great place to live and work when you stop and think about it.

The city has a breathtakingly rich, well-preserved history from the majestic tower of Worcester Cathedral to the beautiful, gilded edifice of the Guildhall.

I love the Hive which, despite what some people say, is magnificently bold, brave and imaginative.

This iconic, resplendent building has the qualities of an Aztec temple (minus all that human sacrifice) when it shimmers in the sun on a summer day.

Friar Street is as fine as any thoroughfare to be found in England with its crooked, wattle and daub Tudor buildings, the home of high quality independent shops, restaurants and atmospheric, old world pubs.

We have verdant, wide open spaces such as Cripplegate Park and Gheluvelt Park and, running through the city’s heart, the silver thread of the tranquil river Severn, thronged with swans and elegant, varnished barges.

Though Worcester does suffer from traffic problems – particularly the Southern Link Road and the city centre – it is generally wellserved by trains and is near the M5, which provides you with an excellent gateway to the South West and the Cotswolds and easy access to Birmingham and the north.

Then, there are the people of Worcester, who are perhaps its greatest asset.

They are, in general, some of the friendliest, funniest and down-toearth folk I’ve met.

I was an outsider when I came to Worcester seven years ago but have always been made to feel welcome, much more so than I did in the south east.

If you don’t like Worcester try living in Slough or Hull, Accrington or Blyth. Just make sure you have the Samaritans on speed dial before you pack your bag.

If you travel this not so green and pleasant land you will realise how lucky you are to live in Worcester.

So next time I hear someone besmirching the name of this great city I suppose I’ll bite my lip and imagine some of the finer flourishes from Elgar’s Enigma Variations.

I suppose that’s better and a touch more edifying than bouncing a prize piece of Worcester Porcelain off their bonce.