Greenhill Road was the map. Number 33 was Ian Gilmore’s house, which meant it was the destination and the start point, the place you aimed for and the place you passed through on the way to everything else. The Barracks was through his back garden and that gap in the fence we treated like a border crossing. Andrew Walsh was off on Fieldhead Drive. Punky Price was further up near the junction. The important thing was the routes between the the addresses, the way the estate stitched a life together out of pavements and shortcuts. Inside number 33 there were choc ices in the freezer, darts in the cellar, Fred Truemans’s Test Match cricket game upstairs with our best Richie Benaud impressions and a Vic-20 that swallowed entire afternoons. The photos are only the set. The real subject is the old infrastructure of friendships, built from time, proximity and habit. I don’t know how you measure that, except that I still remember the way to get there.