Canary Wharf
The snooty doorman gave me a dirty look, but he let me in anyway. He had to. He knew me from the other times that I had visited the building. And he knew that my friend Nikki was a registered tenant and would allow me in. But he didn’t like letting people like me, in my old, wet biker leathers, into his posh apartment block. Nikki’s dad had bought a bachelor flat as an investment in the new London financial district, and he was holding it while the market was in a slump. Nikki meanwhile could live in it while she studied sculpture at St. Martin’s College. It had become the hang-out of choice for our group of friends. ...