My couch surfing host in Brussels — let’s call her ‘Sev’ — was Greek, tall and passionate. When we met near St Giles station, she was huffing her impatience with the fire of a true daughter of Hellas.

My buddy is a detective in London, working murders, kidnappings, all that sort of fun stuff. We’ve bonded over The Wire, plenty of booze and one Monday, a full English fry-up.

He took me to a diner in Southwark (pronounced ‘Suth-urk’), or I’d call it a diner, acknowledging there may be burrs in…

Outside pub window: weak, wintry London light. Rain. Double-decker red bus, men and women with brollies. Inside, in front of me, is lunch: a pint of Guinness, fish and chips and mushy peas.

It’s such an easy London cliché, so easily diffused by casting my eyes and ears out a little more: to…