The Book's Introduction
I cling to my dad’s enormous hand. With long strides, we are rushing through London. I am six. I am sometimes catching my step, sometimes just being lifted by his forward thrust. I am wearing a bright yellow cape, with a sailor’s hat to keep the rain off, and at every puddle I splash the rushing Christmas shoppers. Dad scolds me, but I know he doesn’t mean it: we are a tight pair. We are coming from an exhibition about some ancient civilisation at the Royal Academy, where he had lifted me high above the crowds so that I could see the twinkling gold swords. Now we have to get somewhere, probably the coffee-bean shop in Soho, for he has very particular tastes. Although we are in a hurry, as we round a corner he stops sharply and I charge straight into his camel-hair coat. It is warm and wet. We have paused because he wants to tell me a story of a man called John Snow whose name and picture is on a pub sign across the road.

