The Dickensian delights of London in lockdown

I’m blessed by the fact that I live almost smack-bang in the middle of old London, a pebble’s toe punt from St Paul’s cathedral. Being an aficionado of Charles Dickens and J.B. Priestley, I’ve been able to wander along empty streets and alleys that have been immortalised in such novels as Angel Pavement and Bleak House. When I’m walking around the yards and courts at the back of the Bank of England, I can imagine the nefarious Mr Golspie darting round a corner with an enigmatic grin of triumph on his conniving, pugnacious moosh. Kicking a stone down a street for as long as possible has been a rediscovered pleasure to me over the past year. During the most deserted period of the first lockdown, I dribbled a cracked flint pebble up the middle of a deserted Fleet Street from Ludgate Hill to the Royal Courts of Justice without encountering a single vehicle.