IN THE CITY!
Or a reflection on how I see it all now, followed by a poem written about London before I moved there.
18-year-old me truly romanticised the idea of one day living in a big city. She dreamt of hustle and bustle, big foamy lattes, and racing around from publishing house to home studio.
Let’s imagine me waking up, wearing my leather green jacket with jadons and wide trousers and turtleneck combo. Walking down these London streets to the tube station. Standing in rush hour traffic, headphones in, on my way. Little Green Bag ringing in my mind. Strutting the busy streets to Penguin Random House offices, coffee in hand and a grin on my face. I’m ready to start this day. Surrounded by books and influential people and knowledge. Reading my book on the tube journey home."
— my journal, 29th January 2020
Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately now that I look back, she learnt how hard life really is pretty soon after crash-landing bang in the middle of East London. The former Kray twins’ haunts, the vintage shops of Shoreditch, more bookshops than ever seen before — all of these shouted out to her for attention. For the most part she did try to live her life as she had imagined it, but what was intended to be more London Girl was more Mile End.
It might sadden you to read that it didn’t last, and before long she traded in big city life for small village living. But I can see now that not all things are meant to be — living in London was a much-needed chapter in the book of life lessons. I don’t regret my experiences as they shaped me into who I am today. I wish that I had taken advantage of having London as my oyster more often than I did, so to make up for it I make the most of my time now.
But don’t fret, dear reader! 23-year-old me still romanticises life just the same, if not more. But rather than looking for dreams to gush about I find it much easier to focus on everything around me. That’s the best that I can do for that little girl who lives inside my mind — who wonders softly now and then when I’m finally going to solve the mystery of the disappearing Scottie dog, or if I will ever top the speech I gave at the ‘funeral’ for the den that I once made (which was taken down after my Mum kindly reminded me that that was my Dad’s chair I had used).
I still see her sometimes in the things that I do and in others around me. Yesterday morning whilst travelling on the bus, we passed a little girl with two blonde pigtails and a denim dress on waving to us all on a street corner. She had reigns on, of course she did. The dummy in her mouth almost fell out from the excitement of her waving aggressively with two hands when the bus got closer to her. Passengers waved back at her, and you just know that it had made her day. She only looked a couple of years old, I doubt that she’ll remember that act as she gets older. But it struck me for two reasons. The first being: what a simple little thing, yet it brings such immense joy to so many people. A small child waves to the bus and it brightens the mood of us all sat on it; no longer fretting and stressing about the long work day ahead, or at least forgetting our worries for a moment. The second way it struck me was how similar she looked to how I did as a child. Shockingly blonde hair held up by two pink bobbles, and the reigns! She began to pull on them, obviously not yet realising about the trick of unclipping them for a sweet escape.
What a picture it was. A memory washed over me then — a sunny beachfront, my Dad grimacing at a blue dot running further into the distance. That’s why the reigns were necessary.
I look back rather fondly on my life, and perhaps I shouldn’t. But I think that remembering the nice things, or at least seeing the nice parts of things, is far better than having to remember the hurt.
So, without further ado, here is the poem that started it all…
From the University of Kent to London, 1986
Only a pound for the coach?
It’d be wrong not to.
Frantic whispers come
from the close-knitted group
locked tight in discussion
under the notice board.
For the student union or
anti-Thatcherites, you tell me.
It’s funny to hear this
from the man who consistently votes for
the Conservative party.
The coach splutters and starts in
towards Elephant and Castle.
There’s what feels like
millions of girls,
some right sorts —
mostly the weird feminist types
with dungarees and patches
and mullets
like the one you used to have.
All of them brandishing
placards like monstrous swords.
But while they marched to parliament
you and your mates
said fuck that,
and ran out
into the heart of the city.
It’s only eleven ‘o’ clock
in the morning
by my god
that pint
sitting in a beer garden
on Tottenham Court Road
is so refreshing.
Pushing through businessmen in suits
almost knocking briefcases out of hands
because that gorgeous pair of
white loafers
in that
cosy shoe shop
on Oxford Street
are calling out your name.
Oi
where were you lot?
The other students ask
when you and your mates come
stumbling and giggling
onto the coach.
Oh
we were right at the back.
Yeah
you wouldn’t have seen us.
Nervous excuses titter
and shopping bags are hastily
hidden under seats.
All you can remember now
is that you made the most of it
and you laugh.
I wonder if
back then
you could’ve predicted how
your life would turn out.
One moment
chasing cheap pints and easy birds at uni
the next
rushing into the office
with a wife and three kids
at home.
And just when I get a glimpse
into your fun and interesting past
the subject is brushed off
just like usual.
Now it’s back to boring old Dad —
working long hours
with no time for anyone
not even
me.
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