London is turning into a ghost town – it’s tired and lacking in energy

Do you remember the good old days before the ghost town? / We danced and sang, and the music played in a de boomtown.”

So sang The Specials in 1981, AKA the summer of riots, when unemployment was at a record high, police brutality heightened racial tensions and young people who’d – unsurprisingly – had enough took to the streets.

The tune ran through my head coming home from a pre-recorded interview at BBC Broadcasting House – not that there was any rioting. I was in the heart of the West End, and the place was eerily empty (Extinction Rebellion, who have been protesting in central London, don’t do the Friday before the bank holiday weekend, it seems). I’d been expecting a tricky journey and even planned extra time, but I heard no one and saw nothing.

Broadcasting House was running on a skeleton staff. I went to the new entrance, had my temperature checked and was sent round to the old entrance, only to find it heavily barricaded off from the street. A security guard showed me the way through – maybe they were expecting a visit from royalty? Perhaps Camilla was popping in for a chat on Woman’s Hour?

It took me a while to realise the barriers were probably there to ward off either the absent climate change protesters or anti-vaccine mob, who tend to storm random broadcasting facilities without checking to see if they are still operating.

Such was the case some weeks back when a pack of Covid deniers turned up at the old BBC HQ in Shepherd’s Bush – only to find the place had been converted into luxury flats a decade ago, while one of the few remaining studios was recording an episode of Loose Women. Ha!

Apart from the staff on reception and the team involved in the show I was pre-recording, I didn’t see a soul inside Broadcasting House.

On the original side of the building, there was only me and a PA in one of the brass 1930s lifts, and as we wove our way around the building to the recording studio, I walked down deserted corridors and through empty offices. This wasn’t the Broadcasting House I knew, where I’ve had some of the happiest moments of my career: recording Just A Minute in the radio theatre with a live audience, and in the drama studios with flights of stairs leading up to fully-made beds, “play” kitchens, and boxes of gravel to walk in, should your show so require.

It reminded me of working on a Sunday, but it was lunchtime on a Friday – and it felt very sad.

When I left the building to hop in a taxi, I noticed another thing that was missing – the little groups of autograph hunters that used to huddle around the radio station entrances.

During the summer holidays, you’d usually see a gaggle of teenage girls hanging around and hoping to catch sight of someone I’ve probably never heard of.

Gone, too, are the older die-hard autograph hobbyists, who used to congregate outside Wogan House taking selfies with Radio 2 chat show guests.

I got into my cab, and as we began the drive back to south London, I was struck by how many “retail opportunities” there are around Regent Street now – dozens of empty shops, the biggest lost jewel being Topshop. London’s West End looks like a fabulous necklace missing half its stones.

My driver was pessimistic: “They’re going to pedestrianise Regent Street,” he told me, but I couldn’t see who for – it wasn’t as if the pavements were exactly overcrowded; and in any case, where would the buses go?

“This town is coming like a ghost town”, The Specials reminded me. London isn’t the woman she was – like so many, she seems to be suffering from long Covid; she looks tired and lacks energy.

When I got home, I realised I’d left my handbag containing keys, cards and phone in the cab. My mobile was on silent because of the radio recording – so I couldn’t alert the driver.

I don’t think I stopped crying until he returned with it an hour later, and I’m sure those tears weren’t just about the missing bag. Sometimes it all gets on top of you.