Apex Corner, So Much To Answer For

Apex Corner isn't a corner. It's one of those big roundabouts on the edge of London, where lots of big roads meet - the kind of big roads that have been carved from residential areas, where double-fronted houses look down from man-made embankments at the relentless hum of traffic. It's the kind of place where pedestrians have to walk on one side of the road; everyone streamlined in the appropriate direction until they reach their road-signed destination.

I used to go to Apex Corner every other week, to sit in an upstairs room and practice talking. I'd take the Thameslink to Mill Hill Broadway then walk up what I guess must be Mill Hill, past the bagel bakeries and polite North London boutiques that lead to the huge dual-carriage-wayed road, and I'd plod my way to Apex Corner (which is hardly an apex either, but more of that shortly), before turning right into the warren of semi-detached, garden-fronted houses where my speech therapist lived.

Lately, because of work, I quite often get driven round Apex Corner in a car. It's a lot faster and a lot more "appropriate" - the approved way of getting around, I suppose. And pretty much every night I notice that Apex Corner is full of anomalies. If you're a person of restricted movement, it's a pretty difficult place to get to: the walk from Mill Hill station must be at least a mile, and the bus whistles past very rarely. Yet Apex Corner (which isn't an apex or a corner) is home to not one, but two veritable superstores for restricted-movement accoutrements: there's a shop that sells clothes for really fat people, and another that specialises in mobility aids. It might be handy if you're an overweight person in need of a home-hoist, but imagine pitching it to the bank: "in locating our shop on the edge of a dual carriageway, near to no available parking or public transport, we will be uniquely placed to service our customer base of people who find it difficult to get around on their own." Madness.