A picture of innocence.

In the late 1960s this tranquil scene was witness to many an act of street-urchin bad behaviour.

My Mum and Dad split up and Mum brought a seven year old me and my little brother from Ladbroke Grove to live here in deepest darkest Stockwell. Here we fell in with Bobby, Kenny, David and Paul; a rum lot of slightly older miscreants.

While my Mum thought we were out playing football and being good boys we were in fact breaking into cars and pushing them around the streets, or pulling the contents out of the many empty houses to make dens on the roundabout. Now these prestigious houses go for countless millions and are owned by QCs and high powered bankers and you can't even walk your dog on the roundabout anymore.

Another bit of naughtiness involved nicking a fork from home to use as a key to unlock the boot of a Ford Zephyr parked opposite our flat. All but one of us would pile inside like sardines and the remaining lad would slam the lid down and lock it.

We'd lie in our pitch black makeshift cell until the claustrophobia got too much or one of us farted and then start banging to be let out. Our pal would then be unable to make the fork-ey operate. With a rising panic we would desperately kick and bang and scream while the keymaster would apologise, "well it worked before but I can't make it work now."

Then, just a little bit after we couldn't take it anymore, the lid would ping open and we'd pour out like rescued miners, blinking into the light.

Straightaway it would be someone else's turn to be in charge of the fork and exactly the same scene would be re-enacted. Over and over again. This went on for weeks...