Back in the days when I used to go to work on the other side of the river I made a point of coming home through Brixton rather than the marginally closer Clapham North, for the sheer joy of coming up those stairs back into the lunatic reality of Brixton from the po-faced suitiverse where I had been mortgaging my soul to the man for the week. Incense, socks, and surely the widest choice of dogmas (including different shades of Christian, Islamic, Rasta and Socialist) on the planet.
And, of course, weed and academy tickets.