I love the smell of Soho in Summer. Sometimes droplets of water escape the clouds’ sweltering grasp and spatter across the toasted pavement, somehow almost sizzling by the scent that fresh moisture makes. Barbecues and Chinese mingle with cheap aftershave in the heavy air, blanketing the Square’s dry scrawny grass. The place has an almost carnival atmosphere, and what would any carnival be without its freaks – each of them cut from exactly the same mould. Amidst the clones, we sat and discussed the past. We were kids when we first came here. We looked just like them. We’re getting old.