“Haitfield House, Sowth Wawlk” was the instruction when he got into the cab, and continued his conversation with a colleague about futures, options and takeovers with an accent of Received English which would have made Brian Sewell sound like Del Boy. South Walk? “I’m not sure where Hatfield House is”, I ask. My passenger informs me that it might be Stamford Street. “Oh! Southwark”, with a silent W.

Called off the Langham Hotel rank (a 5-star no less) to be asked by the doorman if I could take his Japanese guest to a red light district “Soho is your best bet” I say in my best Mandarin, and show him a telephone box in the said district with its ubiquitous adverts. Not understanding how girls have become hi-tech in offering their services he wanders off into the night.

Central St. Giles development at the end of Oxford Street looks like it’s been designed in Lego by primary schoolchildren, not by a world-class architect.

A man knocked on our front door today. It was a Churglar. A chugger who call at your home. I’m a reformed offender can you . . . No. Thanks.

When you want West Central Street you don’t wait until you get to Clerkenwell before telling the driver that you have mumbled “West” Central Street.