The Alma, a pub in Harrow Weald, was an important point in my young adulthood. A number of emotionally significant scenes were played out there. It was my regular, my local. It was a meeting point. It is now a block of flats. Or rather it was demolished and a block of flats was built were it stood. Whenever I pass those flats (which isn’t often now that I live in Turkey) I feel there is something missing. A hole exists, even though there is a very solid building there. Two things now occupy the same space. A block of flats and the memory of a pub.