Nothing to do with Road Racing, this. So, apologies.

This is me, pootling back, late at night, from Soho to my house in South East London. I take this route on a daily basis, crossing the river, passing through Rotherhithe and Deptford. But at night, as you criss cross London’s tangled network of Victorian train lines, it’s particularly atmospheric.

Often I have the words of T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland churning around in my inner ear. They seem to fit the melancholy familiarity of this nightscape as perfectly as when they were written, nearly a century ago. Chuck in a drop of Chopin, and Bob’s your uncle.