London Diary (9)

(Considering it is Christmas, this is a controversial story to write, but this one has been playing on my mind for a while… remember, this is (mostly) a work of fiction, so don’t get offended – CMD)

‘There has to be something more to this, you know, something after this life when we all…’

I looked up from my packet of chips but he couldn’t finish the sentence he had started. It was an accident, no one blamed him for it. But still, months after it happened his hands shook a little bit too much. His gaze couldn’t hold your own for very long. It was as if he was still reaching out, searching for a reason, fathoming a concept far beyond his own existence.

To be honest, I don’t know how I would have coped with it. As I said, it was an accident, no one blamed him for what had happened. But that does not make it any easier. A sharp sound, a yell from across the road, anything could be a trigger for the memories of that night. The mind is an exceptional tool, us humans have evolved it over millennia. And it can deal with all the traumas of life throws at you. But how does the mind deal with death? The reality of this final destination that we will all reach, maybe tomorrow, maybe many moons in the future. And how does the mind deal with death, when you were its very agent?

‘You know, there has to be a purpose…’

I swallowed the chip. Despite its heat, I didn’t feel it slide down to my stomach. Instead I had to think fast, on my feet. Now what could I say. I didn’t just sympathise with him, he was my friend, we had known each other for years, been through way too much. But I also had to be careful, at this point not to speak entirely what’s on my mind. Something that had got me into a lot of trouble beforehand.

‘Well,’ I started.

He looked up at me. His eyes were filled with a glimmer of hope, but holding back something much more forceful. A torrent of emotion was there, but his mind was struggling to apply some logic to that horrific night.

Come on, I did not believe in jack. Look, in life, you make your own choices. And whatever happens, happens. God does not put his hand down, touch you on the shoulder and ‘whoosh’! Life is life. And then we die. We all die. It is a universal law, just like gravity, or the sun rising in the east. Life and existence continues. One day humans will evolve into something else, and all the hopes and dreams that posess today will be fossilised as coal.

God exists, God does not exist, I can’t prove that and nor do I care! I have bills to pay, I got mouths to feed and I got to turn on the heat. No God has ever put cash in my pocket. My own mind, my own wits have got me to where I am and to be honest that is not very far. After all, it is a Friday night, all I have is bag of chips and a friend looking for answers. Philosophy behind a set of dustbins, and not much else to keep out the cold air.

‘You know, there might be something, for us after this life. There may be an afterlife and some divine reason behind all of this. Then again, there may not be. And everything on Earth, that we experience is a result of human action. There is no guiding hand. Or maybe it is a little of both. I don’t know, the Ancient Greeks and beyond were coming up with the same questions. I guess since man first looked up at the starts, we have all asked the same thing!’

He chuckled.

‘Yeah, I suppose so. We’re trying to answer in a night what no one else has figured out so far!’

He grabbed a handful of chips, and shoveled them into his mouth, his hands still shaking that little bit too much. I had eased the pain for now, and whatever was inside him had subsided. But no matter what, until his dying day, he would always have that horror in his mind. No matter how many times we all told him that it was not his fault, he would still lie awake at night and think, ‘what if?’

He chewed on the hot chips, rapidly gasping as he tried to cool his tongue. It was a chilly night, and the vapours from our lungs filled the air. I looked at him, but he did not seem to notice. Whatever was going on through his mind, I hopefully would never know. But in this life, you are always one step away from death itself…

Back Home (3)

‘Money talks.’

Some people do not bother visiting their relatives at Christmas, nor do they buy a stack of presents to post back home. That does not mean that they do not love their family, far from it. But, for them, love is not expressed by showing up and eating nor is it shown by a stack of gifts arriving in the post. Instead, it is shown by money being wired home.

Now there are a variety of ways to send remittences. Through a bank or for those that do not want their cash to be traced, through the many companies set up to send and receive cash over thousands of miles (for an extortionate fee). Billions are sent around the world at this time. Mainly by men. That is not to say that women do not send money back home, they do. But they also do the other things, like visit and send presents. Men just send cash. It is easier than shifting luggage around or waiting at the post office. And they also know exactly what the relatives back home love. Cash.

So back to the quote at the beginning of this post. ‘Money talks’

This year, I have ququed up at the post office and sent money back to the family. Unfortunately, I have not jetted off somewhere exotic, but there is always next year…

Back Home (2)

‘There are a lot of queues at the post office.’

Some of us can’t go back home in person. We can’t get time off work, we believe that we have important existences here in London, we have no cash to spend once we head off this wintry isle. And as we cannot join our loved ones, we head to the post office, to deliver the ma piece of our love. Usually the gifts aren’t that expensive. After all, with China producing everything we need for a song, and availability being worldwide, our gifts have to have more imagination than just this lousy t-shirt.

And so back to the quote at the top of this post. ‘There are a lot of queues at the post office.’ And it mainly women who are queuing at the post office. Sure there is the odd guy, scratching his head, but the vast majority of punters are women, with gifts galore, a stack of cards and a lot of patience while the queue inches forward endlessly. I also feel sorry for the guys behind the counter as well as the thankless tasks of the postie. But I wonder what’s in those presents being posted far and wide. Cakes, jumpers, liquor?

Oh well, curiosity will have to be satisfied by imagination for now…

Back Home (1)

‘There are a lot of suitcases about in London town.’

Now, let me clarify that statement. It is Christmas. And despite the best wishes of many, it is a time that people want to spend with their families. Some jet off home to loved ones, other take a tube from North London swank pad to South London suburban family home. Whatever. But now is the time that people head off home. It started this weekend, waiting in the cold, shivering away, annoyed that they had forgot to pack their gloves, waiting for a nightbus to take them to Heathrow (for the long distance jaunts), Victoria Coach Station (for those prepared to slog it by coach across Britain and Europe) or up to Liverpool Street (and onto lo-cost Stanstead). Some of these guys are light packers, others are lugging very heavy weights. The bulk of them are women as well. Interesting that.

Does that mean that women are more homebound than men? Probably not, but they are more likely to put up with the vagrancies of late night public transport in the city.

So let me get back to that first statement, ‘there are a lot of suitcases about in London town’.

And I wonder what is in them. After all, few will be leaving London for good, but they seem so…alluring. I have an inquisitive nature at heart and I would love to know what are the essential things for two weeks (without the graphic details), just a hint of intimacy at what women pack for two weeks to spend with mama, papa and the rest of the family back home. After all, it could have been many months since their last visit, so what is in the suitcase. Gifts for all, lots of underwear, a good book, liquor?

Oh well, curiosity will have to be satisfied by imagination for now…

Police, Car, Action, Chase!

Police chases. The stuff of every good movie. Or reality…I have witnessed two police chases in my life. Surprising as I live in London. The first was in Streatham four years ago, and the second was last night in Worcester Park. In true South London style, the pursued was hopelessly outclassed by the police car in pursuit. You got to remember that our taxes are paying for flashy BMW’s and Volvos. And they are chipped.

Why bother running? Are you high? Been playing too much Grand Theft Auto? Thinking of Hazzard County? Anyway, the reality is that (I assume) 99% of police chases end up with the police catching the run-aways (usually because they crash their car). 1% of the time, you can beat the police, but they have the number plate recorded anyway, so unless the vehicle is stolen, they know where you live…

What was really funny was that last night, it was a mini cooper doing the escaping. You normally associate the new mini with effeminate estate agents or something else along those lines. Not a couple of boys high on crack and with guns in the back seat. Ha, the comedy of watching the chase!

London Diary (8)

The driver pulled up to the bus stop and opened the door. There were two people at the bus stop, an old man with a walking stick and a young woman in a tracksuit. The driver knelt the bus down and the old man hobbled on, snapping his Oyster card onto the reader. The woman came on. She held her hands together. It was clear that she had been crying, her badly applied make-up now more obvious.

‘Er, can you let me on. My boyfriend’s just kicked me and I’ve left my pass…’

The bus driver gestured to her to get on board as he shut the doors and pulled off. It was not the first time that this woman had come onto the bus and claimed she was getting beaten up by her boyfriend. But it was 3am in the morning, and the secret to the Night Bus was to let everyone travel for free. After all, at this time, who really cares about a bus pass?

As he drove through the empty housing estate, the snow began to fell. He checked the temperature on the dashboard, and it stated it was 2C. That meant that the snow would not settle and instead leave behind a slush that would eventually turn to surface water. Good the driver thought, he didn’t feel like having a difficult night behind the wheel.

The driver looked in his offside mirror and saw a pair of headlights riding close to his bumper. He pulled into the next bus stop and whizzing past him went the taxi cab. In his mind, it was better to let them go. They were in rush, while he had an easy timetable to stick to. There was never a rush at this time of the night. All the revelers that had decided to brave London’s cold streets had long gone home and it would be another hour before the first workers of the day would be seen shivering at the bus stops. But at this time of the morning, it was only the strange that decided to ride on the Night Bus. Those that had no home to go to, those that could not sleep, those that had too much to drink and could not wake up.

He reached the traffic light at the end of the estate. He waited at the red light, ready to turn back onto the main road. A van passed by, rushing to somewhere that was only important to him. The driver overheard the conversation of that young woman with the old man. She was telling him how her boyfriend had assaulted her. Again. But by the end of the night, she would return to him. She always did. And the next time the driver was rostered to drive this particular route, odds on that she would be back on the bus, with tears running down her cheeks again.

Bicycle Diaries – Dec ‘09

This morning, while cycling back from work, London had its first taste of freezing temperatures. In fact I got -2C on the bus’ thermometer. Not exactly the Arctic, but definitely nippy. And all the remaining puddles were frozen solid. Also took the cycle ride a bit slower this morning. You could feel the frost on any smooth surface and it was a little unnerving to say the least.

Now I am fully wrapped up when on the bike. The gloves have been on and off since October, the scarf on since November and now the hat is on, under the helmet to keep my bald palette warm. Need to start wearing thermal socks with my boots too! Also tightened the brake cables as I need to make sure I can stop the cycle in time. Roll on March and the promise of warmth and more daylight!

London Diary (7)

Our eyes met across the vegetable aisle at the supermarket. It was well past midnight, and the shop was mostly deserted except for the night workers stacking the shelves.

She was talking on her mobile phone while pushing a trolley, I was holding a packet of pak choi.

The eyes are the window to the soul. In that instant, a multitude of opportunities opened up before us as our souls connected.

And that is what is so scary and yet thrilling when you look into the eyes of ‘the one’. The fact that the life you had been leading up until that magical moment was been completely meaningless. What I had thought important, my priorities, my convictions, they all went flying out of the window, when my eyes and hers locked onto each other.

The moment was brief, almost instantaneous. If I had blinked, I would have missed her. She would have been another midnight shopper, roaming the aisles, looking for packets of chicken soup and bottles toasted sesame oil. But instead, she was something, nay, someone so much more. That one look revealed to me a soul that matched mine, if only we both reached out to each other.

But this is London. And in this city, two wonder struck individuals walked past each other as if nothing happened…

London Diary (6)

‘Fucker!’

The cab nearly knocked her over as she attempted top make her way across the Euston Road towards St Pancras. The station always looked imposing and now free from the scaffolding that pieced it back together before the Euro trains whistled in. And that is why she was here, she needed two tickets for the first train tomorrow morning. No questions asked, cash paid in full and a sweet smile was all she wanted from the ticket clerk as she entered the station.

St Pancras is a vast station, but she ignored the surrounding splendour on entering the main concourse. Instead she headed straight for the ticket office and waited in line. There was not much of a queue but she still did not take time to admire the surrounding beauty of restored Victorian Architecture. Instead, she kept her eyes down to the ground. She fiddled with her wedding ring, smiling at the irony of wearing that band of gold. It was with her lover that she was escaping the country tomorrow morning. Escaping to a new country, looking for a better life and a new beginning. Buying the ticket was the easy part of the plan she thought. What would come later that night would be the difficult task ahead. How to extract herself and her cash from her marriage…

‘Next Please!’

She looked up and approached the counter.

‘Two tickets to Paris please, leaving on the first train tomorrow morning.’

As the clerk typed on the computer, she looked around and checked behind her shoulder. Of course no one was following her, but-

‘That will be £290 please.’

She paid the money and received the tickets. Heading out of the station, she took one more glance around. No one was following her. She hoped. There were a lot of things she was going to miss about London. After all it had been her home for twenty years and no matter what, she had built a life for herself in this city. But she was starting anew, and needed to get out fast. She lit her cigarette and attempted to cross the road. A cab driver nearly ran her over.

‘Fucker!’

Clapham Common or How to get political about South London

Clapham Common is one of London’s largest green spaces, a place renowned as much for its moments of madness as well as its capacity to refresh the South London atmosphere. But first, a little history lesson is needed here…

Common Land is one of those unusual relics of Medieval law still (broadly) in use today. Basically, the locals adjoining the common have a right to graze their animals, collect wood or dig peat. Back ‘in the day’, when men were serfs, women were no bette than slaves and the vast amount of property in the country was owned by a handful of despots, people were tossed aside a piece of common land so they could eke out an existence.

But back to Clapham. A seemingly ordinary South London suburb, but thanks to the Common, it is now an area of high house prices, young hip things and Saturday Night bar brawls (which are actually quite amusing to watch as us Londoners fight like pussies). But yet, the people still come, attracted (mainly) by a triangular wedge of green surrounded by the A3 and the South Circular roads. And you know what, despite the toffs that surround this park, Clapham Common is a really nice place to venture, especially now as none of the locals are attempting to get a tan under the feeble British sunlight.

You can cycle across, ride a horse in piece or walk your dog. Go for a jog or stop off for the (obligatory) cup off coffee at the park’s cafe. But more importantly you can soak up the relative tranquility available in this part of South London. This is a busy part of the world. The main aim in this part of South London is to get from A to B as quickly as possible, without getting penalised by the speed/red route cameras (ah – the joys of big brother!) While walking on Clapham Common you almost forget that you are surrounded by maniac drivers who have not yet realised the futility that is driving in South London.

(The A3 – Britain’s third most important Trunk Route in a moment of relative calm)

One of the greatest attractions of Clapham Common is the bandstand. A tradition in many of Britain’s open spaces, this one was built in 1890 and is the largest such structure in London. At one point it nearly disintegrated due to the ‘competence’ of Lambeth Council, but happily, this relic of Victorian London is back in swing.

Getting there and away:

Two tube stations serve the common, Clapham Common and Clapham South, both on the Northern Line. Bus routes 35, 37, 50, 88, 137, 155, 249, 322, 345, 355, 417, N35, N137, N155 and the G1 serve all parts of Clapham Common too.