Tell a lie, I get more long jobs than that. Today, Beckton. The most obscure, the most extreme part of the East End. London was the busiest port in the world. I had been there only once before, in the 1980s, as a despatch rider, although I cannot imagine why. A place you go once and it imprints on your mind. Grey, dusty, archetypal. Row upon row of cubical, terraced, gardenless, movie set dockers' houses and nothing else; no trees, colour, street markings or outsiders. All gone now, according to my passengers.