The smell of proper fry-up from the corner van on Moore Street — not the gentrified version with sourdough and smashed avo, but the greasy paper wrapper that burned your fingers and the tea that tasted like it had been stewing since dawn. Dave the owner knew exactly how many sausages I wanted without asking, and he'd slip an extra hash brown in when he saw the state of me after a night in Copper Face Jacks. Van's a poké bowl place now, Dave retired to Tenerife, and I still walk past the spot eve