London begins in the hand, in the cold brass of a Piccadilly line pole, the damp wool at a collar near Green Park, and the clean slap of rain on paving stones as umbrellas tilt along the curb on Piccadilly.
In Bloomsbury, history arrives as objects and habits, pencil marks in the margin at a reading desk, photocopy paper stacked and slightly curled, cotton gloves at a case, and the soft shuffle of pages in the British Museum as daylight dulls against the windows.
In Southwark, excavations at Tabard Square produced a small tin alloy canister with a close fitting lid, set down among ritual items in the boundary ditch of a Roman temple complex, and when conservators opened it at the Museum of London a soft white paste still sat inside, with residue held at the rim as the lid lifted.
