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The Frightened Londoner.

I think I am living in every Londoner’s worst nightmare.

I am out of the city.

Okay, I am technically not out of the city. I am somewhere much worse: suburbia. I can hear birds and the sound of children laughing. There is a severe lack of traffic and the elderly seem to own the street on which I live – (as opposed to the marijuana fuelled freshers that previously engulfed my former home in Waterloo). The Londoner in me is frightened, distressed and severely unsettled: I am without distraction and stuck in oblivion.

You see, the Londoner needs London as much as the city needs them. The true Londoner craves the significant, the big and the overwhelming. We become panicked by silence, uneasy by universally unknown landmarks and downright terrified of those who are friendly but not wishing to sell us a ticket for Penthouse. What we need is the noise, the smoke and the ultimate distraction of this city’s creative and cut-throat buzz. It is the pulse of the underground beneath the Strand that pushes us through the homesickness, while the playful menace of Leicester Square dissuades us from pondering the seriousness of “what am I doing with my life?” The Londoner needs to walk past Westminster, head-sore and weary, and listen to that figure shouting from an open window, “Just keep walking, girl! We’re trying to sort out the real problems in here! Just keep on walking...”

Once in a while though, you’ll find a Londoner find one who at least attempts to relish the quiet and the smoke-free air. They’re sitting on a bench, watching a river devoid of tour boats and tanks. They hear nothing (not even the sound of next door’s three year - old) as they fix their gaze on the opposite bank .

They see birds droop loftily across the shore, the hills standing quite still and silent. The Londoner raises their head as they catch a glimpse of movement: sunlight catches against blue sheets as they hear red buses in the background.

Now we are out of The City.

The Underground Buskers

Running through Sauchiehall Street at two in the morning: away from the undesirables who are chasing for the change.

Our feet smack against the pavement as we dodge the twilight traffic and the polis [1]. I turn to my friend and shout through the rain and the weeping.

“Feel like chips?”

“Sure. Grab the loot! [2]”

*

I stand ever-so suggestively in our regular spot; ‘cigarette’ smoke tickling my nostrils, while the Friday night crowds begin to thicken on an August evening. Welcome to the Mean City: the home of the Glaswegians and the galoots [3], the fiends and the friendly, the beggars and the buskers. Tonight, we are the latter; and with one crafty swoop, we’ve stolen our stage outside the pubs. “Ready?” I ask my companion, as we glance at the oncoming throng of drunken businessmen with silly money. Excitedly, she nods, and with a final inhalation of sweet smoke, we pick up our violins.

As we start to play, the sound of our fiddles hit the masses like a force in their inebriated state; the rhythms engulfing their carefree and foolish minds. Watch them now - this is when you draw them to you: build up the pace, paint the crescendo - hit the finger-board faster and faster! And as our fingers skip skilfully across D’Addario strings, we begin to meet and greet the world.

The Irish passing on their bikes slow down for the reel while the Cardiffians start drunkenly demanding their “national anthem!” We laugh at the London businessmen who keep politely quiet - they’re not sure what’s going on. And in the foreground, our fellow Glaswegians just dance and drink from their stolen beer mugs, shouting, “Belt out ‘Caledonia [4]’, hen[5]!” Now the waiters in the restaurants press against windows; the lassies in the off-license peer round the doors, while the Navy on-leave start swaying to the bittersweet song of their homeland; learning it all by heart. And in the background, the junkies and the homeless linger quite harmlessly. (We kick the case shut though, for now.) Can you hear the coins rattling?

Then suddenly – a flash of yellow - and the polis come waltzing through a midnight shower to the ‘Ashokan Farewell’. The Irish bid goodbye: the English leave their calling card. The Welsh? They scatter to the station (- jovially pissed off because we didn’t know their national anthem). The Glaswegians, however, just laugh in the uproar, as we graciously take a final bow amongst the madness. Then we scramble for the money and throw our instruments in their cases. “Just grab the loot! Grab the loot, Amy! They’re coming!” Then we run off into the night; past the homeless, the helplessly drunk and the homesick: a lone marine sits crying on a nearby bench. He weeps for Caledonia. But we keep on running into the dark, figures in gold behind. We hear the Marine shout into the sky as we run through scarlet lights: “Play on, girls! Play on.”  

---

[1] Glaswegian for the Police

[2] Money

[3] Clumsy personalities

[4] The Roman name for Scotland

[5] Girl

Now we are out of The City.

Alone in the Garden

He was working in the garden, planting new daffodils
I watched him as he patted the soil like silk,
Stroked the petals as if they were crying
Oppressive amber tears.

He turned to me and called -

'Bring out some more soil from the outhouse!'
Against a lazy breeze I skipped and jumped,
just to see what it felt like to be callow and carefree.

Then the rain engulfed his garden: his essence.

He laughed blissfully and danced like a schoolboy in the showers;
'Isn't it wonderful? Whoever thought I would go like this?
Tell your father I'll stay in the garden a little while!'

Then I watched him as he savoured fallen joy,

And listened to him chuckle in a mass of vivacious love.
Because he had never looked so alive and free...
Then I wept as his ghost faded away.

“The Roxy, tonight?”

Some say sobriety will stop you from dancing.

Not, however, at The Roxy. Welcome to the roughest pit stop of Tottenham Court Road; the underdog of the London club scene and the place where alcohol is hardly a necessity. You enter as Florence pounds the speakers and the floorboards clap with the beat. There’s a buzz in here tonight: there’s going to be a lot of broken toes and hearts to come.  

Already the drunken ones have forgotten their drinks – they’ve left them at the bar – and the sober ones have moved fast enough to claim the front stage. We’re dancing in secret here tonight: that’s why we’ve come. And for a moment the Londoners experience the unknown and the opposite of reality: we are now everybody’s friend and nobody’s stranger.

Is that the tube we feel beneath the floor? Or just the walls being built around the entrance? (The doors are closed now, people - enjoy the oblivion you’ve found yourself in.) And for a moment Florence goes quiet.

You catch his gaze across the floor; reality’s wiped clean amongst the sudden silence and mentality. “Just keep dancing and everything will be all right. That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” You throw back another gulp of orange juice.

Florence snaps out her lull and the clapping continues. The chandeliers are shaking as the rhythm builds a force of its own and the dark and dirty interior flashes colour.

Then someone grabs you by the hand amongst the madness as a camera is crushed below care-free heels and newly bought shoes. We just keep dancing; feet against the floor.

Can you hear them?

Love Letters at London Bridge

There are a million things to see and hear in train stations.

That’s why I so often find myself taking the 381 to Peckham, getting off at London Bridge and strolling into the station. The conversations hit you as you manoeuvre though the entrance. Welcome to the world of the long-distance boyfriends, the waiting husbands, the travelling girlfriends and the worried wives. More importantly, welcome to the world where those relationships are exposed; where goodbyes are unintentional performances and hellos are embedded in the platform gates.

I sit there waiting for the train to Denmark Hill. There are probably a dozen couples preparing to part. Some are smiling. Some are not. Some will return to meet. And some will simply not know. I watch the ones who are about to be left, the ones who have so much more to say that an unsubstantial 'goodbye'. You can see it in their faces: they're struggling to walk away. Clumsily they fumble in the pockets of their coat: are they trying to find their words? Did they scribble down their farewell? These are the ones who confirm for me what train stations really are - they are places of love letters. They hold the greatest love letters in the world because they store the unwritten ones, the tragic ones - the ones that were never read. They were only left with a writer who wished they had slipped them into the packed pocket of their companion before they departed to the gates. Only the fatigued passengers, the trodden platforms and their trains will get to hear what they really had to say.

My train is delayed so I continue my gaze, my eyes focusing on the woman in the red coat. The man she’s with has turned away, his suitcase dragging behind him, his head drawn to the ground. She’s mouthing through the crowd, “I have so much more to say”: her arm held out, a speech prepared - an unsent love letter in her hand. Then she departs, coffee cup thrust in the bin along with tissues and crumpled paper.

I stand to make my way to the platform and the woman in red melts into the crevasses of London Bridge. Train stations: they are places of love letters; the unsent and the unsaid. Perhaps they were better off never being sent. After all, the greatest ones never are.

The End of the Beginning?

I’ve made it to the finish line.

Well, the finish line of my first year at King’s College London. I just sat and read over some extracts from a ‘diary’ that I kept during the first few weeks here. I hate diaries. I always have. (Why is she writing a blog then, you start to ask?) I sound so young, so amazed; so startled by everything in this city. And then I think of myself today - now. I am a different person.

It’s been less than a year since I packed up my bags and jumped on a train from Glasgow, hurtling down the tracks at 120mph, so ridiculously ready to begin my life after working in Primark for a year; along with waitressing and teaching ungrateful children how to play the violin. A year ago, quite frankly, I was miserable. London was my calling, my saviour; my one - way ticket out of Primark and into a world of friends, books and fun. It was what kept me going in the last three months of my money-making gap year, where waitressing in a mediocre Italian had become my final job before University. I think I’m having one of those very cheesy but also undeniably beautiful moments when one looks at their life with undeniable pride and happiness... To be honest, I’ve had a lot of those since moving to this city that literally pounds under your feet, as the underground rattles manically beneath the pavement. You feel that heartbeat as you stride along the Strand. London is breathing into you - it’s pumping you with life. There’s a soul to this place quite like any other I’ve ever experienced. There’s a familiarity about it that never gets old, a momentum that never reaches a peak. London is like the love of your life: it has a quality so uniquely exhilarating, that it is impossible to find an actual word to describe it.  

A week today, I will have moved out of my student flat and will be heading back to Glasgow for the summer. A depressing thought – I shan’t deny it. The thought of leaving my home and returning to ‘The Mean City’ to work in Primark once again is horrendous. However, this time I will be filled with the knowledge that London will be ready to welcome me back before I know it. There will be no fear this summer, no anxiety surrounding what it will actually be like to get there. I will only have the excitement of knowing that I will be going back.

I will work knowing that I have only blissful happiness to endure in this city. I was reminded of it again as I walked through Oxford Street today with my friend, face aglow amongst the chaos of shoppers. It was one of those moments where you watch yourself from outside your body. (You’re on camera, folks.) You’ve stepped out for just a second – a whimsical moment. I can see myself. I’m watching and feeling the beat of the pavement as I smile. I’m oblivious to the hustle as I swing, (ironically) my Primark purchases in the brown paper bag. I turn around to make sure my friend hasn’t been swallowed up by the throng. I’m laughing as she awkwardly catches up, sweating in a London summer. We both laugh. We both feel the heartbeat of the city as we walk. We think the same thing as we hear the sound of Piccadilly’s Circus in the distance. ‘Look at us, just look at us - we got everything we ever wanted...’