hen I was little, as Sunday evening began to draw in and me and my siblings grew restless, someone would invariably suggest going for a drive. We’d all pile into the car; Mum, Dad, and the four of us, and just drive around. We wouldn’t actually go anywhere; there were no pit stops, and no destination (other than returning right back to where we started). Yet, we it. We’d emerge refreshed from what we’d seen on the way – and never more so than when we left the suburbs and ventured into central London, a world in itself for someone always on the outskirts. There, we’d find skyscrapers, and black cabs, and hop-on-and-off buses with ticket collectors. I knew there was potential and
