Early morning, London, warm and fine. I walked down through the towers of Ethelred Estate and along Lambeth Walk to Lambeth Road. The tide was out and the shingle banks along the river were visible, covered in mud and rubbish, and gulls and starlings picked amongst the stones for tiny morsels.
I walked across Lambeth Bridge and dragged open one of the tall, heavy, black-painted gates leading into Parliament Gardens, which were empty of people. I walked across the park beneath the leafy canopy of chestnut trees and out onto the roadway in front of Parliament. Ceur de Lion stood on his bronze horse, his muscled arm holding aloft his great sword. Westminster Abbey was nearly deserted, but the open doors, which let in the noise of a pneumatic drill and a whistling verger, destroyed the serenity of the great church.
The empty eyes of County Hall stared out onto the river as I walked along the embankment and over to Waterloo Station, which was bright and airy.
TRANSCRIPT
Transcript, Waterloo Station, 9.10am, Saturday 20th of the 8th. This is one of the most enjoyable aspects of travel, people watching. I’m sitting at a table outside the coffee shop at Waterloo Station, a cappuccino on the table before me and an array of people walking by. Being a Saturday, the station isn’t as crowded as 9.10am on a weekday, but still, many people are here, going about their business.
Saturday is shopping day, Saturday is going away on a holiday day, Saturday is going to the beach day. For some, Saturday is just another work day. For me, it is another day of doing whatever I like, another great pleasure of travelling, freedom. The coffee tastes good, strong and sweet, and I sip while watching a family drag their bags along the concourse on little leads, the wheels squeaking audibly all the way down the station. There is racing today at Sandown Park. The track can be reached via the Guildford service. There will be another rail strike on Monday and Tuesday.
A little man with gold teeth, which he is picking with a finger, walks past, his shoes clicking on the hard stone floor. Next to me, a couple plan their route to somewhere, arguing over times and connections. The tannoy announces something completely incomprehensible, the disembodied voice echoing around the girders of the station’s roof. The word apology is audible, so there must be a cancellation or some delay. The couple next to me arrive at the conclusion that their train departs from platform 16 and rush off in the direction of the overbridge to Waterloo East. I finish my coffee and leave too.
From Waterloo Station, I walked back down to Kennington, taking photos of little pastiches of life as they caught my eye. Lucy, Linda, and I walked down to Elephant and Castle in the afternoon. Elephant — for that is what it is locally known — could be described as the epitome of central London suburbs. Incredibly crowded, jumbled, littered, squalid, and filled with a diverse range of peoples. Within the roundabout, where five main roads intersect, stands the garishly painted Elephant Shopping Centre. It is pink. There is no other description necessary.
The movie theatre that we had come to was semi-derelict, seedy, and dark, and full of unruly kids. The movie, The Mask, however, was a brilliant rollercoaster ride of comedy and special effects. Jim Carrey’s character, Stanley Ipkiss, is a perfect foil for his alter ego, which he becomes when he dons a wooden mask that he found in the river flowing through the fictional Edge City. The finer points of the film were lost in the din created by the mob in the theatre whenever some dialogue came on, but for the most part, the film was a visual feast.
After the film, we walked back to the flat and relaxed for the rest of the day. In the evening, Linda and I bussed over to Trafalgar Square and set off into Soho in search of a nice meal. The evening was deliciously sultry, and there were large crowds of people in Leicester Square and up through Chinatown. We wandered at random for quite a long while until eventually choosing a little corner Italian place where we dined on pasta and garlic toast washed down with a very acceptable red wine.
Back out on the streets we wandered down into Piccadilly Street, which was packed with people, down Haymarket to Trafalgar Square again, and along Whitehall to the Horse Guards. The quaint stone buildings along the street cut down much of the noise of the city. No one else was around and the windows of the buildings seemed to stare benignly down on us as we walked towards the river.
We sat for a while on the steps beneath the Golden Eagle watching the lights of London shimmer on the choppy waters of the Thames. Up past the Houses of Parliament the sky was violet, a deep indigo black, into which reached the golden towers of Big Ben. A fat full moon hovered beneath a low covering of orange fog. We walked down to Lambeth Bridge and listened to Big Ben chime eleven times, its deep sonorous voice booming out over the noisy but hot city. We caught a bus outside Lambeth Palace back down to Kennington.
CurseOfTheTraveller 