Memory lane, the King’s Road is my memory lane. Actually, I was outside the Chelsea Baths the other day, reminiscing about my squatting days, when I spotted a little symbol of our times: Pete Burns, huddled on the pavement, smoking a fag, his eyes seeking attention from the passing shoppers, his artificial face receiving almost none.

Poor Burns. You may remember him from Big Brother – he’s the one whose lips splattered in the mirror – yeuch - because they’d had so much collagen pumped into them. Now, sic transit Gloria, if not mundi, he’s well on the way to being one of those King’s Road characters that cadge drinks from out-of-towners in the Chelsea Potter pub.

And being a nostalgic old codger, my first thought is: ‘The street life was better in my day.’ There was Jesus, who dressed like the longhaired original (except he was blond and beardless). There was Marianne Faithfull in her strung-out wilderness years, squatting with a dealer on Tadema Road. There was Phyllis the speed freak, who turned from battered glam-rocker into foul-mouthed punk overnight. (I remember Sid Vicious telling her to ‘behave’ one night in the Roebuck.)

And is there honey still for tea? And stands the clock at ten to three? Perhaps I should get out more.