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On the corner is the shop of Mr Christie, ex-Conservative Councillor on Lambeth Council, until his death. Two floors of junk have lain immobile for the last fifteen years, almost impacted with their weight. Christie was a sort of Mr Boffin, Dickens' Golden Dustman. In a pocket of space at the heart of his shop Christie poured rum for his friends. If any object could be extricated from the geological impactions of his stock he might part with it at a price. Egbert Christie was hardnosed indeed, as one might expect given the politics of this big, dignified West Indian.

Next door, a grocer more Conservative still; so conservative indeed that he was always seen at the counter of his grocery store in black suit, white shirt, bowtie, his political allegiances clear from the poster in his window: Mandela shaking hands with Louis ("Hitler was a great man") Farrakhan.

Further down the street is Mr Cheap Potatoe. And you just know you are, residentially speaking, in limbo when you have not one, but three local shops with Mister in their name; add Mr Clutch and Mister Electric.)

A yellow tank churns past driven by a "south London businessman" as the local press terms him. Today it does not bear a twelve foot polystyrene dinosaur wearing a giant police helmet; indeed the whole thrust of his protest has been largely forgotten, in the best traditions of folklore; I think it involved a holiday in the Seychelles, the capture of a marlin, the subsequent celebration of this catch by the bolting to the roof of his house of a fibreglass simulacrum of the fish (as one does)…er.. and his consequent conviction for this breach of planning permission; but let him go his own sweet way, ploughing up Acre Lane in his tank; his signs, now battered and unused lie in his Acre Lane lock up: "Marvin the Marlin says Get Stuffed" and "We will take no more stick from the old Bill." (If the above makes no sense that is the fault of our "South London businessman", not mine. I can only protest is that it is all true.)

In the laundrette Bill sits reading about Victorian crime, gaslight, cut-throats, Lestradian detectives with lanterns; I once find him (midst sacks of neglected service wash) fretting over a copy of In the Footsteps of the Ripper and a current A-Z. I help him locate an alley (does it still exist?) where a prostitute was fastidiously eviscerated….(and it does!). Bill is about 70 and looks like the little man in a Donald Gill postcard. Avoid Acre Lane in the summer for you do not want to see Bill in his shorts, especially as he rides his child's bike.

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