Fuck off reader, the Spokes are mine. What are the Spokes? Ley lines? Radioactive caveperson routes of ancient lore? Measurable phenomena indicating the prescence of omnipotent space basteds? Shut up. The Spokes of London are in my mind and not yours, OK? Don't read my story please, keep away thank you very much. And no, you may not walk them as I did. You want to see where all this marvelous stuff happened, to visit the new hot thing, to exacerbate your pointless likes? No, do not go to my precious Spokes o' Londo'

Imagine the metropolis London with a spidery web of hugely compelling unsignposted walking ways dropped upon it. All these ways are heading inward from various points around an imagined and unnoficial perimeter of Loondon, every single one pointed inwards towards the centre of Lonndon which is Peckham Rye Lane.