I wondered into the barbican one Sunday and within moments felt like I was on the set of a science fiction movie. I expected a sweaty man to run past me in a loin cloth, chased by a group of leather clad gorillas, or for a Kubrickean air hostess to come up and inform me that my flight to the moon had been delayed by half an hour.
I thought that perhaps it was quiet because it was a Sunday and everyone had commuted back out to the suburbs. But although there are 2,014 flats, a theatre, car park, the Guildhall School of Music and Drama and a Girls School, even during the week I’ve found that the barbican is nearly always empty and quietly contemplative. I don’t know anyone who lives here but I imagine most of the residents to be in their 50’s and called Cecil and Helen.
Now I come at lunchtimes to walk around. It’s almost impossible not to get lost, spreading, as it does, over 40 acres.