A rebel without a clue.

I. Dogshit Alley and the End of Grande Civilization I left the flat for Starbucks on Street Lane. One grande mug of Café Estima Blend® and a brownie later, I’d had enough. Sweet indifference in a paper cup — and no Wi-Fi. So I walked back through what I’d christened Dogshit Alley, the shortcut across the Romans Estate. They still call it The Romans, though it’s no Rome. A turn-of-the-century suburb sagging into 1950s council spill-over, trailing off into The Bumps — a park more by accident than design. I lived just the other side. “The Romans” felt wrong. More Gypsy than Ravenna. More tired than tragic. I don’t mind a park’s edges being dumping grounds for dogs, but that path was a wager with disgust — hop, glance, dodge. Miss one pile and comedy strikes. I still remember 1985: I fell flat into a steaming one. Oh, the smell. Oh, the shame. The “lake” in The Bumps was no lake. A brown puddle with an upturned Presto trolley sticking out of it like some exiled relic. Ribbon-shaped, half ...