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Fishy tales

Astragal’s old home of Clerkenwell is often described as an architectural ghetto. Statistics show that in London you are never more than 10m away from a rat; in EC1 you are never more than 10m away from a Paul Smith-clad, Brompton-riding, silly glasses-wearing designer. And this can definitely have a downside. Astragal vividly remembers lengthy sessions in Exmouth Market pubs, regaling the gathered crowd with scurrilous tales of Zaha, only to turn round and be greeted by members of her office or, worse, the woman herself. So it was with some relief that the loose-lipped Astragal found himself in his new Camden home, reasoning that the confused Italian teenagers and Special Brew aficionados who comprise his new neighbours would have little or no interest in his libellous architectural banter. It was somewhat unfortunate for him then, to find himself in a Japanese restaurant on Parkway one Friday lunchtime, getting stuck into some particularly candid tales from the architectectural underbelly, only to turn round and see half of the Sheppard Robson office, whose office is next door, hanging on to his every word while waiting patiently for their sushi.

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