The Isle of Dogs

A skanky scarred fox scurries across the forlorn urban wasteland. His hungry nose on the scent trail of a dead seagull’s stench blowing on a mild icy wind. He wonders amongst the rusty rubble of old London town's docks through the thin rain, but in vain. One of his cubs will die tonight.

By 1980 the docks of London had got themselves in a sorry state. Corruption of over powerful unions; the dock's incompetent depth that drove away dismissive modern ships; the constant bombing during the Blitz; Britain’s slow and painful economic decline throughout the twentieth century had all taken their toll. The docks were dead. Its fat, bloated, rusted, corpse slowing decaying in the rain on the Isle of Dogs.

It wasn't always like this: for over 100 years London was the biggest city on the planet. By 1900 its population was reaching for 7 million, still dismissive of the young upstart New York's 3 million.

For over a century Britain had controlled the largest Empire that man had ever known. The sun never set on the Union Jack, they said. A formable and forcible feat for a small rainy island off coast the north west coast of Europe.

It was all controlled by commerce and ships - lots and lots of ships. And more ships to protect the other ships. And then some really special ships to protect those ships. Oh and shooting anyone who disagreed - but mostly ships. Did I mention the ships yet?

At one point Britain controlled 90% of global naval trade. The ports of Glasgow, Liverpool and London were bursting with exotic goods from over the world. Teeming with trader's and sailor's tales of successes. London most of all - the centre of the universe.

London's longitude is still 0, 0, 0.

But time passes, stripping away what was, as it does to everything.

Next week: From the ashes - Canary Wharf.