"The surveyors will be here at noon, Arthur," his sister, Eleanor, said from the doorway. She was already dressed for the city, her shoulder pads sharp enough to cut glass.
"They’ll call it 'redevelopment,'" Arthur replied without turning. "But we both know it’s an autopsy." Park Lane No 32 (1989)
The year 1989 was a season of shifting tectonic plates for London’s elite. At , the heavy mahogany doors stood as the last line of defense against the neon-lit rush of the late eighties. Inside, the air tasted of expensive cigar smoke and the faint, metallic tang of the nearby Underground. "The surveyors will be here at noon, Arthur,"