Islington

There's a stop on the Gawler line named Islington. Located bang in the middle of sparsely weed strewn paddocks dotted with abandoned warehouses and rusted bogies.
Who named it that? What part of it reminded them of the crowded terrace houses of the namesake north London suburb?
Something about naming less than salubrious locations after iconic areas depresses me.
Part of it is a fear that I suffer from cultural cringe, that deep down I reckon it, my life, would be better lived in Dublin or Toronto or Tokyo.
I had my time in London and it was fantastic, free and wild. But when I returned to Adelaide - after a seven year hiatus - I found much to love about this city too. Guess it's that I associate Islington with certain friends' flats, with parties that went for days, with meeting and bonding with interesting people and with having no responsibilities whatsoever.
Looking up from a dry textbook to find my train stopping at a platform in the middle of whoop whoop is a stark reminder that those halcyon days are behind me. I can deal with that, I just don't like having it thrust in my face in the form of a rusty white placard declaring (this is not) 'Islington.'
The truth is we create our own lives regardless of geography. You can be miserable in New York or happy in Ceduna.
But I also think we should refrain from naming quiet suburban streets 'Piccadilly Circus.'