But, like Taylor, I have recently lost my London Boy. I begin at The Black Dog pub in Vauxhall: the scene of the crime in the now-infamous song in which Taylor croons: ‘And your location/You forgot to turn it off/And so I watch as you walk/Into some bar called The Black Dog.’ Stern paintings of Byron, Wordsworth and Coleridge glare down at me (my skirt is rather risqué by Victorian standards) and Swift’s album Folklore echoes in my mind: ‘Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die,’ she sings on one track.