I walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8
“I walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8. It's freezing and it starts to rain and it's the ugliest bus I've ever seen, rattling down the ugliest streets, in the ugliest city, in the ugliest country, in the ugliest of all possible worlds.”
The Late Hector Kipling - David Thewlis
Mr Remus Lupin writes fairly well about London. Who knew?
In my London, I often walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8. Not long before the end of the line at Bow Church - having dealt with confused tourists at the British Museum, crawled through the City, and inevitably been thrown up on somewhere around Shoreditch High Street - the Number 8 bus drops me off right by my front door.
It's often "freezing", and almost always "raining". But that is where the similarities with My London and His London end.
Just like our wolfie friend, many would have you believe that London is that ugly city, and it is so because of its 'ugly people'; a cold place where nobody ever talks to you, you can go days without seeing a friend, and where everybody pushes and shoves their way to work each morning in that desperate life-or-death race to be arse in office chair by 08:58.
There is an impression that as soon as you head far enough south to hear the 'ar' in 'bath', you can forget any possibility of human decency or companionship.
That isn't My London. My London isn't an unfriendly city, it is just a busy city. A city filled with 8 million people, (or 12 million on Monday to Friday, between 9 and 5) all of whom have jobs to do, bills to pay, classes to attend, children to collect from school, bosses to placate, a train to catch, a smashed mobile phone screen to fix, and 'oh shit, I forgot to pick up milk'.
It's also a city filled with people who are immediately distracted from this madness when they see somebody else in need. People who give up their seat on the bus, who chase you down the escalator after you drop your £90 travelcard in the ticket hall, people who always help parents get their pushchairs up the stairs, and who will go and find you a cup of tea with plenty of sugar in an attempt to stop the shakes, despite already being ten minutes late for work. People who will stop you feeling like you're about to be swallowed whole by your 9 - 5 and the Northern Line.
People are naturally kind, I'm a big believer in that, regardless of whether they're 'bath' or 'barth'.
If only they'd stop throwing up somewhere around Shoreditch High Street.
The Late Hector Kipling - David Thewlis
Mr Remus Lupin writes fairly well about London. Who knew?
In my London, I often walk to Oxford Street and climb on the Number 8. Not long before the end of the line at Bow Church - having dealt with confused tourists at the British Museum, crawled through the City, and inevitably been thrown up on somewhere around Shoreditch High Street - the Number 8 bus drops me off right by my front door.
It's often "freezing", and almost always "raining". But that is where the similarities with My London and His London end.
Just like our wolfie friend, many would have you believe that London is that ugly city, and it is so because of its 'ugly people'; a cold place where nobody ever talks to you, you can go days without seeing a friend, and where everybody pushes and shoves their way to work each morning in that desperate life-or-death race to be arse in office chair by 08:58.
There is an impression that as soon as you head far enough south to hear the 'ar' in 'bath', you can forget any possibility of human decency or companionship.
That isn't My London. My London isn't an unfriendly city, it is just a busy city. A city filled with 8 million people, (or 12 million on Monday to Friday, between 9 and 5) all of whom have jobs to do, bills to pay, classes to attend, children to collect from school, bosses to placate, a train to catch, a smashed mobile phone screen to fix, and 'oh shit, I forgot to pick up milk'.
It's also a city filled with people who are immediately distracted from this madness when they see somebody else in need. People who give up their seat on the bus, who chase you down the escalator after you drop your £90 travelcard in the ticket hall, people who always help parents get their pushchairs up the stairs, and who will go and find you a cup of tea with plenty of sugar in an attempt to stop the shakes, despite already being ten minutes late for work. People who will stop you feeling like you're about to be swallowed whole by your 9 - 5 and the Northern Line.
People are naturally kind, I'm a big believer in that, regardless of whether they're 'bath' or 'barth'.
If only they'd stop throwing up somewhere around Shoreditch High Street.
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