Vauxhall - all gone.
In my room above, I would listen at night and try to engage with those below, though my mind again would fail to fix a scene where I'd easily belong.
Outside, three streets of orthodox anarchy.
Middle-class warriors wearing donkey jackets on Sunday lunchtimes ( never trust guests who arrive with their own herbal tea ).
The cut and thrust of Cockney banter, the cadence and telepathic punchlies, reduced to a turgid mockery.