Gypsy Lane is a place, and like many special places it has its own  unique vibration, at least for those of us whose blood remains soaked into concrete walkways and tarmac roads.

 

Kisses were scrounged, stolen,  dared for, even given sometimes.

White thighs were urgently desired, a place of heaven just above worn stocking tops.

 

We huddled in darkness, in alleyways hidden from the glow of gas street lights. Gas street lights that so often battled the coal dust fog.

 

 Everything was perfect.