Why do I Keep Doing This to Myself?

Slapdash marxism, London's oldest restaurant and a recipe for trout gravlax

London offered its sky – murky grey, the colour of granite, without depth, not firm but soft, a sky that would be shapeless if it was not infinite. I had new brogues that pinched my feet and slipped on Covent Garden’s drizzle-damp cobbles. I was hungry, a touch depressed and glad to be journeying lunchward. A clown danced madly with a child, a boy of ei…