Soho Square is the epicentre of my Universe. It’s a tiny slip of a park really, barely enough grass for all the bottoms during the few short weeks of British summer. They sit shoulder to shoulder drinking beer out of plastic cups, or eating fruit; shirts off, legs splayed – throwing orange peel into an empty coffee container while they talk to each other conspiratorially in Portuguese or Spanish or Italian and sometimes English. The gays are bright and shrill here - Jackie O glasses and crimson motorcycle jackets. The girls accompanying them wear skirts at the height of fashion – pleats mostly, ruffles, a dynamic hem. A glut of transient youth takes over Soho Square, fighting for space amongst the pigeons, and lunchtime suits, the lanky Production runners and the Bums asleep on benches. Once I watched two homeless lovers in each others arms, rolling around on the mud, forgetting their dirt and missing teeth as they pulled themselves so tight. Once I tried to climb over the black wrought iron gate with a French boy at 3am, because neither of us had a room to go back to. Once I was given a daffodil for no reason. I only mention this because my new office is on Soho Square and I get to walk through my epicentre now twice every day.