I know I’m back in Brixton when...

I’m standing outside the pub for five minutes having a smoke and get offered a carrier bag full of steaks for £10; home-produced music CDs with hand written labels; three people trying to bum cigarettes off me; an elderly, well-spoken old lady asking for 40p to get back to Slough (“You’d have to pay me not to go”, quipped my Catalan – “not Spanish!” – companion); and an elderly black woman asking me if I’m having a good evening.

I was actually rather offended not to be offered any drugs. When I was younger, I was constantly being offered them down Cold Harbour Lane. Either Brixton has become too gentrified and the drug dealers have moved away, or I’m just looking too old to score drugs. Maybe a bit of both.

Previously on Barnflakes:
Diversity deficit
Fire