Every morning Paul Convery walks out of his front door to be confronted by piles of discarded coffee cups and sandwich wrappings. There is an unmistakable stench of urine. The pavements are filled with stocky, intimidating men with glowering expressions and the parking spaces have all been taken by battered 4x4s that have not paid or displayed.
‘The neighbours down the road are woken nightly at around 3am by the sounds of taxi doors slamming, shuffling of feet, shouting and excitement,’ he says. But this is no unexplained urban menace: this is the modern paparazzi at work. Convery has the misfortune to live on the same north London street as Peaches Geldof, the ubiquitous celebrity poppet whose picture is much in demand from tabloid newspapers and glossy magazines.
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