Wonder what became of that man in a suit wandering through Bond Street station at two in the morning on New's Year Eve with a papier mache Rubik's Cube on his head? All the colours were lined up properly, so no one was going to play with his head, but did someone anyway?

Was that eager, frisky Big Issue salesman lucky enough to sell a couple of copies to those sozzled black tied and evening dressed haute bourgeoisie slithering out of a restaurant near Grosvenor Square at round about the same time? Or did they mock him as I miserably suspected they probably did.

Did Shepherd's Bush become in the end as Romanesque as it was threatening to be when a friend and I walked past the Green thirty minutes later? Romanesque as in the last days of.

And how come I felt so perky after less than five hours sleep?