I was standing in a street in London, taking half an hour to myself, staring up at windows and rooftops, and above them the blue sky. Telepathy felt possible. Who was that whispering in my ear, who wasn’t there? All the ghosts, bombs from the 1940s to smoke from the Great Fire, (I could smell it); frills and lace from Victorian love affairs and horses’ hooves, it all felt real. Nobody could interrupt my perfect logic of looking up, and leaving it all behind.