It's forty years since I walked these streets. Memories come flooding back. Fleet St. that hive of industry seems so quiet. Is this our modern automated society or has the magic of news and newspapers gone?  Where are the boys rushing through the crowded street, shouting the winners?  Those cocky imps bubbling with life, their feeling of importance.  Didn't they know that extra bit of news that we outsiders did not?  What names pass before your unseeing eyes.  Hannen Swaffer, Kier Hardie, Edgar Wallace.  Is this why newspapers are disappearing. Articles by such as these would sell any paper.  I stroll down Hind Court oh Sweeny Todd the demon barber, how that made news, and now the Cheshire Cheese.  What men have passed through these portals, the roar of their laughter still rings in one's ears.

Fleet St, what memories that brings back. The Lord Mayors Shows, the magic pageantry, the crowds, the colour, the noise, the excitement. How as a boy I overstayed my lunch break, not able to leave this workday thrill; my rather poor excuse? "I could not get through the crowds sir" was accepted with kindly understanding, not found today in employers.  There's not time for understanding these days.

I continue my memories pilgrimage to Ludgate Circus. Ah the "King Lud", just a pub you say - oh no.  Where else can hot meals be got by inserting a coin and pulling a drawer? And the conversation; Kingdoms won and lost here in minutes, countries governed by hour, day or week to order.

And now that mighty edifice clouds the horizon. St Paul's, her mighty dome,like a giant umbrella shielding the city, with giant office blocks going up changing the face of our city, but she does not change. Up her steps have gone kings and Queens and the mighty of all nations. Rich and poor have found solace and comfort here. No colour bar here.The whispering gallery, the gentiles wailing wall?

On again down Queen Victoria St to the Mansion House. Ah, what pageantry we have seen here.  I can recall sitting on top of an open bus in the pouring rain, held up by point policemen, to allow the fine carriages to proceed to the carpeted entrance. "Wouldn't mind sitting down to what they're having tonight" a voice at the rear of the bus remarks, "Better than my bangers and mash" says another.

At last we move again and now we can catch a glimpse of the beautiful gowns of the ladies making their way along the corridor.

With a glance at the old lady of Threadneedle stand the Bank of England, I make my way up Fenchurch street. Now we are exploring the world, the shipping firms, with their scenes of far-off romantic places, their fine models of every type of ship complete in every detail.

My journey is now nearly ended. 30 minutes walk, 40 years of memories. What a city. Has it changed so much I wonder?