ABSTRACT
Thus spoke a venerable architect now on his second practice, reminiscing to me about the good old days, pint in hand. Picture the scene if you will. It is the Friday before the weekend before Christmas, in the bar of the renowned London St John restaurant, well-known haunt of architects. It is raining outside, now that we have brown Christmas’ not white as a result of global warming; the well-worn concrete floor is slippery grey, with a film of beer, broken glass and fag ends. A group of lawyers have been in since lunch time and don’t seem to have left yet. The space is rammed with black polo necks, furry parka hoods and graphically challenging tee shirts.
