The Uber took us to the road junction at the heart of Elephant and Castle. This was as far as Pierce’s instructions went – for here we would be on foot, and in theory vulnerable. We were dropped on a peninsula of pavement on the south side of the doomed hulk of the shopping centre, and the scene was promising enough: walkways and underpasses, railway arches, patchy street lighting. But the junction pounded with traffic and buses, and the pavements were busy. Too busy, really, and I wondered why.

‘It’ll be quieter away from the centre,’ Pierce said. ‘Better.’ And we both knew what he meant: more dangerous. The concrete labyrinths that had loomed large in the London of our youths, the loci of all provincial middle-class fear.

But we had made a mistake: misremembered it, given the driver the wrong destination, replaced one memory with another. We crossed under the railway bridge, expecting dripping shadow and mute monoliths, a place taxis won’t take you. The first thing we saw was a line of taxis, orange lights on, waiting for trade. Behind that, carnival brightness and music. Galvanised security fences screened the boundary of the estate, but it was not deserted or closed. The fences were strung with fairy lights and bunting, and in front of us was a scaffolding arch bearing a name spelled out in weathered letters reclaimed from older signs: WINTERZONE. Beyond the arch was a prim favela built from shipping containers that had been painted in acid colours, a miniature city on a bed of playpark woodchips. In the distance was another splash of coloured lights, machine movement, crashing and cheering.

‘What is this?’ Pierce said, horror in his eyes, upturned face bathed in light.

I knew: I had heard of Winterzone, people had been talking about it in the office, and there had been a brief piece about it in the most recent issue of the magazine. A ground-breaking experiment in interactive urban renewal, urbanism as entertainment, shopping, music, film and street food. Nowhere does food indoors any more, it’s all street food. I just hadn’t realised that it was here.

The gates were guarded by a line of glittery young people in black North Face, each bearing a tablet computer. They smiled and reassured us that entrance was free if you accepted the shared-space conduct fist bump, and I think my bruised face drew a suspicious look. We each bumped fists with one of the pad people and agreed that our conduct would abide by the terms and conditions that were laid out on the website accessible from the URL found on the wristbands we were issued.

‘Isn’t this where the big council estate used to be?’ Pierce asked one of the gate guardians, a bright-eyed girl with pink spiky hair.