As 29-year-old Jack Davison opens his front door, he has to hold back an onward-rushing Radish. Running behind him, egging him on, is Dali, also a Bedlington Whippet, named after Davison’s favourite childhood artist. The photographer smiles a hello while admonishing the canine duo as they try to run between my legs and out into the streets of east London. Once inside, the dogs rush in circles around his legs, barking in wonder at the excitement of life. It’s a beautiful, bright evening, and Davison has the sort of flat that most Londoners of his age can only dream of, set within a Victorian townhouse, boasting large rooms and high ceilings. Two bay windows bookend the flat at so that the spring light passes through from the street to the garden. Two large sofas are placed facing each other, with books, plants and framed prints dotted around them.  It’s from here that his burgeoning photographic operations are planned, while downstairs, a room is in the process of being turned into a studio. But as we …