Monday 24th
– Sunday 30th September:
London evidently has
some sort of gravitational pull, an invisible attraction turning us all from
little moons into meteors as we inevitably become sucked into the sphere
surrounding the capital. Everyone knows someone who lives or works in London,
even if you’re from the Hebrides. I met up with a couple of my university mates
whom I’ve not seen for a couple of years because they made the treacherous
journey from Liverpool to London.
We were meeting after
work at Leicester Square, on the Piccadilly line, so instead of the usual route
to King’s Cross, I made my way to Russell Square. It was busy so I decided to
take the stairs down, instead of the inevitably overcrowded lifts. I didn’t think stairs could top lifts
for claustrophobic effect but Russell Square has somehow managed it – long, helical steps continuing down, down, forever down...they never end. If there is a
stairway to Hell, it must be based on Russell Square’s architecture. I was fine
at the top but after about 5 minutes when there was no sign of it stopping I
began to get the panic sweats and cold clammy palms as tile after tile of white
slid monotonously into and out of view. Just as I thought I was going to have to
sit my trembling legs on the grubby steps and cry, I caught sight of floor.
Wonderful, flat terrain. I will never underestimate its safe and smooth levelness
again.
 |
| A Holly Golightly |
Emerging from Leicester
Square, I was greeted by my friends who whisked away my distress with a brisk
walk to a Spanish tapas restaurant, and then a bar where drinks were served in
jam-jars and menus were folded into old LP record sleeves. Cocktail prices are
on average £10 (how do people afford this without resorting to prostitution?)
but I thought for one night it would be cool to have a hibiscus flower in my
drink, so I ordered a ‘Holly Golightly’ and then a Champagne Cocktail, simply
because this is the drink of choice in Casablanca.
My younger brother also
resides in London, and he invited me to dinner on Saturday night. Location to
meet? Baker Street. That old thrill of electricity went through me again, as it
was the perfect excuse to visit number 221b. I almost hurled with excitement.
After an hour of
mooching around St Paul’s Cathedral – and I mean around, not in (£15 to go in, £15!!) – I took the
Hammersmith and City line to Baker Street. My newest mission is to hop on as
many Tube lines as I possibly can; so far, I’ve been on five. I arrived early and decided to go in search of the
illustrious address of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. I didn’t have far to
walk. The museum was closed but one could take pictures of the door and the
sign above proclaiming its significance for all of Baker Street to see. I
genuinely wanted to press my cheek up against the jet black door and stroke it
lovingly and reverently, and then possibly have Benedict Cumberbatch open the
door and invite me in, but I fear I am once more confusing the line between reality and
fictitious characters.
After instead giggling in an awestruck manner,I made my way back to
the Tube station to meet my brother and decided I’d better wait somewhere
prominent. Where better than beside the statue of the famous detective on
Marylebone Street? I’m pleased I did because it provided some rather amusing
entertainment. Of course, I was not the only one to take notice of the gigantic
cape-wearing, pipe-smoking figure; it had attracted a medium-sized swarm of
Chinese tourists with their cameras. One by one they took their place next to
Sherlock to have their pictures taken with him.
Afterwards, they all started singing the Pink Panther theme tune. I’m still not
entirely sure that this was a genuine mistake or they were merely having a
discussion about different detectives. But then I didn’t hear the theme tune
for Poirot... 
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