One of those characters who could be anything from mid 50s to mid 70s under his unkempt, dirty beard and shock of unwashed, greying hair, Mikey told me he had been a part of the Soho sex trade since he was a teenage lorry driver, bringing in box loads of porn from Amsterdam, the fruit and veg of the performers buried under a mountain of actual fruit and veg.
You don't very often see pimps visibly plying their trade in my neighbourhood these days, which is both a sign of Westminster Council's success in its relentless campaign to crack down on the sex trade, and, perhaps, an affirmation of what the local girls proclaimed loudly and with varying degrees of success in court, after the dodgy police raids of last December.
The ladies on the door of the lap dancing bar opposite my flat in Soho are all of a certain age. Their dress code is "smart casual" Top Shop, rather than the thigh-flashing micro skirts favoured by young East European girls in more up-market establishments, and they're all "real" women making a living, with a healthy sense of humour and cynicism.
With an exhibition title like "Big Swinging Ovaries" it's probably obvious that artist Jess de Wahls is a feminist. What's less obvious is that "Big Swinging Ovaries" brings together art, feminism and recycling to create portraits of diverse female role models.
The show itself was almost like a James Rhodes' mixtape - a collection of short pieces from a range of James' favourite composers. Indeed even the man himself hinted at such an approach when he stood up next to his piano and bashfully said that the theme he'd picked for the evening was "Love", surely the only true reason any mixtape has been made?
Nuala Casey's debut novel set in London's famed bohemian quarter - concerns itself with four ordinary Londoners who get caught up in the cloying hysteria of 6 July 2005, the day Britain was announced as host of the Olympic Games. But as day breaks after a night of bacchanalia - the 4am in question - a day of infamy begins: 7/7, a date Londoners will never forget.
Simply put, London is rubbish at food markets. Yes, we have Borough Market (inexplicably only open three days a week) and we have some very decent farmers' markets in suburban car parks, but there is nowhere in the capital that comes even close to the glorious Rialto Market in Venice or the sumptuous San Miguel Market in Madrid or the vibrant Cours Saleya Flower market in Nice.