EVERY TIME I RETURN, I understand less. Soon, England will become unrecognisable to me or, at least, to a revenant from the days of my childhood in London who will wonder what became of good manners, stiff upper lips, hats, pipes and the scents of boiled cabbage and lamb fat.
On my current visit, a trivial yet disturbing sight swept past, as I climbed the escalator in a tube station. “Vegan bacon,” announced the poster,
