Smiling birth. Screaming toddler. Liberating wardrobe-top Lego from the house on Pen-Y-Lan Road, tangled in 1980s dark curtains and lace netting. It is my last memory of the city. Then through the years, Roath swells with Indian, Pakistani, Polish. I escape the darkness of south London shootings for its friendly streets, the kind grocer on Albany Road, the miasma of second years, foreign students, half-way houses, sustained by late night booze and nitrous delivery service, nourished by independent cafes, galleries, scenes, pound churches, happenings, pizza delivery, neon friendships. En masse we scamper through the night between house parties and town and unemployment and breakups, nursing cocktails in Milgi, sushi at Tenkaichi. The taste of childhood for sale in the ethnic shops on City Road. You try to move away from it. But you can only ever move around within it.