Three strong-built men in overalls and cask helmets standing outside the Roseberry Avenue post office. All three of them squeezing tiny Ribena juices, drinking from the straws.

A woman sitting at a table outside a cafe, holding a cigarette in one hand and drinking an Actimel after exhaling the smoke.

In the cornershop, a guy talks to his friend while paying for his can of Coke. ‘The missus is away tonight, so I’ll have to make dinner’.

The owner of a miserable Chinese takeaway talking to the Portuguese delivery guy: ‘Where is the money? You know, if there is no money, there is no honey!’

A guy holding his girl’s face in his hands in front of a boarded building on Pentonville Road.

Standing up from the bench I’m sitting on at Russell Square drinking peppermint tea, I read the inscription with the corner of my eye. The name and age is now a blur, the bottom line reads:

Never tired of London.