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London is a very confusing city. Unlike the regimented multiple x and y axes of New York and the numerous cities built in its image, or the studied, but by no means impenetrable, whimsicality of, say, Boston or Baltimore, London's development has been free of any overall guiding influence. Rather than having its skeleton sketched out by a town planner in the relative social certainty of the mid-19th century, it has grown organically over a sprawling millennium and more, pummelled and singed by wars and fires, built up and knocked down by successive kings, mayors, governments and councils. Therefore grand avenues the width of rivers are bisected at random angles by twisting passageways down which two large men couldn't walk side by side, streets with names like Turnagain Lane taper into brick-wall nothingness, and mind-boggling clusters of labyrinthine alleys lurk yards from bright thoroughfares.

It was one of these high-walled Elizabethan tangles of oddly-named near-tunnels that Terry Blanchard found herself exploring on the sunny second Saturday of her two-week vacation. Having spent the afternoon admiring the grand, slow curves of London's financial district, taking in the 17th-century grandeur of the Bank of England, the domed brilliance of St Paul's and the incongruous, yet strangely fitting glass-and-metal dagger of the NatWest tower, one of the city's few genuine attempts at skyscraping, she had been taken by a shadowy view of gently swinging wooden shop signs that retreated into the dimness of a narrow alley snaking between two six-storey town houses now occupied ...

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