It is about half past eleven, and I am smoking a goodnight cigarette on the porch. For some reason, this part of London affords much in the way of street theatre at night. Or maybe it is the promise of it, such as the way the look and layout of Earl’s Court promises great seediness and debauchery (although it never delivers). Here, though, things do happen.
There was the woman singing an evangelical hymn who stopped to have a chat. The woman with the cutest dog in the world. The Deliveroo guy smoking the strongest spliff I had ever smelled.
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