The King’s Cross streets are loaded, Thursday night miniskirts and Chelsea boots, pastel Hackett polo shirts and Stone Island wear, people coughing the odd virus or two in my direction. All sorts of rubbish clinging to the curb, crisp packets, bottles, tissue, and ting. But still, this is as dirty-clean as London streets at night can be, you get me? No roadman or beast- man in sight and the boney hookers are yet to come out their nooks.

I hit the buzzer on the intercom and listen to whoever the drunk eediot is on the other end make a fool of himself before buzzing me in. I suppose man can afford to make a fool of himself in a building for rich kids—a Hall of Residence made especially for them, the kind of gates I didn’t even know existed until I met Kaisley;

just fancy, plants as tall as I am and everything faux marble, everything sweet. Drop your gum in the lobby, pick it up again. No problem. No lergies, I’m telling you.

CONTINUED