In the same year that my novel Carmel was published, my father died. I had quit London following the death of my mother eight years earlier; the place having become too polluted and altered for me to remain a moment longer.
Subsequent visits to London, in the years that followed, found it had returned to a friendless, faceless city. But those weeks at the end of the millennium year were to offer a time warp where the past was almost witnessed through a weathered window. I felt like a phantom, who was not even present in the capital, passing through sadly unfamiliar places. Indeed, I felt like a time traveller.
Yet there remains ghostly images, reminding us of how special that place once was.