Growing up, my dad owned a secondhand bookshop in the Brunswick Centre in Russell Square. Early 00s, a peeling grey estate hailing over a quadrangle of eclectic shopfronts connected by broken cement paving slabs and an air of almost forgotten, the brink of survival. Not a chain in sight. Residents of the estate above mingled under clouded Tupperware skies. Brutalist architecture was yet to have a resurgence. Pre-hipster heyday. Before brutalism became fodder for the photography student’s experiments with the aesthetics of youth culture.