Number 34 sings to me, a dusted blue layer cake, charming trinket box, the perfect townhouse. A Georgian-looking thing of perfection, snuggled duly in line with its bigger brothers of Allen Road. A stage-set faded shop sign reads ‘Mr Harvey’s snack bar’, barely discernible. I scroll in vain with one frozen finger, in search of who Mr Harvey may have been. How is it that just a few weeks ago the corners and secrets of this road looked entirely different? Stories sing from their walls and new eyes become accustomed, but on first meetings we are blinded. A big poet once described a train journey he had taken, the landscape…