Capital Punishment

I was born in London but don't remember it from my childhood as we moved away before I was two. I've never had any great desire to return to live there. I don't feel any great affinity with the place, and the hustle and bustle of so many people tends to make me feel like a fish out of water. I'm just not built for that environment. But I do like returning as a visitor in small doses, for a number of reasons. Mostly because I have lots of friends who live there, but also to see the differences in way of life, people, and behaviour. Being an outsider makes it easier to observe, to comment, and yes, to judge. A recent trip gave me the chance to do all of these things.

Trains: gliding towards London courtesy of network rail we pass open fields, lush green pasture and meandering rivers. These are the places where people wave at trains. I have no idea why. I've attempted a waved return on several occasions, and am yet to forge a strong friendship with anyone as a result. I doubt they could see my salutation. In the city, where the trains slow and weave between high rise blocks of flats, stuffed full of residents, nobody waves. Surely here more than anywhere one should jump at the chance to befriend commuters and visitors alike. London has a sense of impersonal anonymity that I like and dislike in equal measure. It's totally possible to disappear into a crowd here. I like the variety, the ethnicity, the independence of the place. On the other hand, it feels like a billion tiny atoms all whizzing about invading each other's personal space and occasionally colliding.

The underground: this is a very recognisable symbol of our nations capital, a masterpiece of engineering and enterprise, tired and jaded but still chugging away under the streets like a great metallic snake pit. There's something very Hitchcockian about the fast approaching crescendo of a tube and subsequent squeal of it's brakes; the inadvertent gusts of wind that spring up and die out of nothing in the great tunnels and stairwells; the solitude of empty carriages on late nights out and the dangerous proximity of total strangers in crowded commutes. Why do the handrails on the escalators move ever so slightly faster than the stairs, so that, if you chose to lean against the handrail, the angle of your lean becomes ever more precarious until you lose your balance, falling upwards into the backside of the person ahead of you. Unless of course they are in the same predicament, in which case you all topple forward like a giant set of dominoes.

Oyster Cards: what a wonderful invention this is. A system of pre-paid ticketing that allows you to travel unhindered through the transport network, only pausing periodically to ensure you have enough credit to continue your onward journey. The problem with oyster is that if, like me, you are usually it infrequently, there's inevitably a moment at the first barrier where you suddenly realise that you have no idea how much money is on your card and you nervously tap it against the reader, hoping that you are not refused entry when half of London seems to be queued up behind you. People assume that other people are always in credit and move forwards with unnerving speed, so much so that a barrier refusal results in a huge pile up. It's like watching the riderless horse in the grand national pulling up short of the fence and running across the oncoming traffic in a sideways bit for freedom: horses, riders, handbags, attitudes and expletives are all sent flying. And the barriers do not accommodate baggage or large people. You have a mere fraction of a second to pass through, with all of your personal belongings and dignity, before the barrier closes. Any errant suitcases or umbrellas left straggling get shut into the barrier, and a grumpy attendant, who's only job can be removing stranded people from the barriers, comes shuffling over and tuts as though you had any possible alternative route. 

Business attire: having agreed to meet friends in a central location, we all converged on a small area of pubs near Green Park. It was 5:30pm, and we should have known better. The working masses were spilling out of nearby offices and streaming like flies towards the nearest watering hole. All of the pubs had well dressed clientele overflowing onto the streets outside - some with fag in hand, all with drinks, and all wearing impossibly ironed shirts and sharp cut dark suits and polished black shoes. In my mind they were talking figures, profit margins and who to sack. My jeans and brown shoes combo stood out a mile - who'd have thought I could look out of place in this most accepting of cities. But the continual stream of high heels and shiny cars and discussions of property prices put me firmly in my place. I imagine most of these people would look equally lost if I took them on a tour of Salisbury Plain: like a great herd of suited wildebeest about to cross a crocodile infested river. 

Despite my apparent unease, I actually enjoy these trips. It's great to catch up with friends, to remove myself from the antiquated charm of Salisbury, and to observe life in all of its glorious variety.  I love the pace, the scale, and the feeling that I'm constantly starring in a music video-either a 'London virgin' video that sees me gazing in wonder out of a train window as reflections of tall buildings whizz by on the glass, or a 'coming of age' teen romp in which something from the American Pie soundtrack blares out while I play Frisbee in one of the London parks with tanned mates. Ironically enough, on the way there, Third Eye Blind's 'Don't wanna go to London' came on, and on the way back it was Ed Sheeran's 'The City'.

Visiting the capital also reminds me how lucky I am. I hate the commuting and the claustrophobic dirtiness of the city. I feel captive in London, unable to stretch and breathe. But mostly I feel confused: bewildered by how everything and everyone operates in such a chaotic environment; overwhelmed by options, choices and decisions; bemused by my feelings for my birth place. I love and hate this place equally - a bipolar dichotomy of steel, glass, parks and people. London is all things: a centre, a catch up, a playhouse, an antithesis to my comfort zone, nostalgic, whirring, errant, and it continues to draw me in and spit me out exhausted at the other end.