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...’