We've surely trodden all the directions around our house - methodically, at times, drunkenly, at others.
We're Minotaurs, trapped inside. Hooves poised, compass needle wavering under our magnetic indecision.
Our walks along the railway cutting - a city's scar, threaded under bridges, over bridges - an old straight track or urban ley line, perhaps - is the only place we briefly, freely, realise how trapped we are in this labyrinth.
I remember, as a child, stepping off the tube in a new station and realising, with utter indignation, that left and right had cheated me.
Every city, its corners pinned down by maps, keeps turning if you stand still - there is no easier way to be lost.