Come, friendly ghosts. Where are you? Come out to me. I was thinking of you walking along Kensington High Street earlier this evening. It does n't take anything for me to experience you again, just to turn a corner, or pass a particular building, and there you are, rising to meet me - affectionate echoes of those happy moments that have happened at some point of the twenty years I've known this street. You are steeped into the buildings and into the pavement. Deep and sustaining.

It's the one area in London where the memories of happy, warm, and exciting times overwhelm the neutral, or on occasion, those that are gloomier and bluer. Why is that? I really don't know. Perhaps, I suspect, it's because I've never worked around there; the route to work is a story all on it's own, not one, either, that has a regular joy to it. But here, it's only ever been pleasure.

Probably the happiest moment I've ever had, happened here. A wonderful night some years ago, (not too many, I like history, but I don't live in the past. An optimist still), in a quiet wine bar, with someone I care for a lot. Unearthly contentment. The wine bar has gone now, it's something else; it does n't matter, all I have to do is look at where it was because the glow of that evening never goes. It's like the song writers say: "you can't take that away from me".