THIRTEEN
Just up from St James’s Palace are a number of closeted alleys. In old London they would have been called runnels, places you entered only if you were as poor as a church mouse, a bad lot, or stupid. Nowadays they are trendy places, quaint, full of Dickensian character. Daylight struggles to penetrate and the gulley in the centre of the paving to Crown Passage still resembled the channel that carried away the night's waste in mediaeval times. In modern days it tripped the inebriated, some of whom would be considered human detritus, even in this salubrious part of London’s West End. The area did, however, have good pubs as atmospherically gloomy as the alleyways that afforded them access, and this was considered a part of their charm.
A brief and stimulating walk across St James’
