The cats in our neighbourhood scream all night and day, like haunted children. In solitary saunter they move up and down the 'Cat Highway' (the brick wall that separates the small backyards), taking exits at leisure into their yard of choice; to sleep alone on rooftops and window ledges. When they meet (which most of the time is outside my bedroom window) all hell usually does break loose. Their competition for space and territory is transmitted to the neighbourhood via high pitched incessant howling. The drama is unbearable. The whole thing makes me sad for primitive cat existence. But the real reason it affects me so much, I think, is because it emphasises something I find challenging about the human world.
In London, space is in constant negotiation. I, and most people I know here live packed together in shared and overpriced accommodation. People flock to live here and therefore space is valuable. Entire families, even in wealthy boroughs, are reduced to sharing one bedroom in more instances than most are aware. Aggression streams along the roads, because the city is not designed for as many vehicles as it holds. My physical cycling body is often in the space where a car, taxi or bus wants to be, and they express their dissatisfaction with impassioned hand-codes, ambiguous horn blasts and by screaming unrepeatable outrage. Pedestrians hurtle down pavements with such speed and determination that I often use cyclist arm signals to manoeuvre as a pedestrian without realising. Once a friend of mine was reminded by a fellow pedestrian, that "it is not Formula One".
Everyday on my lunch hour I am drawn optimistically to a coffee shop, romantically idealising I'll find a quiet haven in which to read a book. This is never what I find, in any of the coffee places in Central London, apart from if I am willing to have lunch at 10am or 4pm. The reality is a merciless scramble for temporary space ownership. This was dramatically confirmed to me recently, when a business man literally posted his espresso under my arm to swipe the table I was sitting down at. I stared accusingly at him from the table I soon found a few metres over. But when he gave me a sorrowful glance, I sadly realised he was going through a similar torment as me, in this packed together city on fast forward.
I don't know what I'm saying with all this yet (especially since the thoughts in my head are competing for space with a cat banshee chorus that is resonating from the garden). This is how London is. It is the sum of it's people's decisions and efforts, restrictions and ignorances over many centuries. Maybe when there are so many different people working on a place at once, and there have been throughout history, it becomes more an untameable beast than a project we can strategically steer. Probably many people don't want it to change anyway and these folk excitedly stomp and slide around the urban hum and clatter, dancing with the beast and drinking it all in. I never thought that London was a place for me though, but maybe I'll never think that of any place (but that's a whole other world of confusion). Anyway, what I'm realising, in my pursuit for personal space here, is 1) I am a highly distractible person living in a city of distractions, but 2) it is always possible to sculpt a different existence, even with small changes.
Self Preservation in a Big City Technique Number 1: Parks
London has a lot of parks and public gardens. Apparently "London is Europe's greenest major city" and 40% of its surface area is publicity accessible green space.
The lesser known ones are cheering to stumble across, if you take the time to explore the snickets and alley ways between buildings, especially the ones that look private. Such as the gardens of barrister offices like Inner Temple Garden and the Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn Fields (despite the stuffy names).
My saviour park is Lincoln's Inn Fields, as it is right by my office. It is pretty well known, but even still remains a pocket of slowed down time, shielded from the city mania by high London Plane trees and a square of Regency/Georgian terrace houses. The grand London Planes stand like they have been caught mingling, arms outstretched to express their tree wisdom and preserve the stillness of the air beneath them. As an aside there is a dog that walks here who's owner calls him 'Little Man'.
Favoured experiences here include one cold February day, when the sun had come out of prolonged hiding, I came across 5 people in separate locations within the park, standing like statues, staring directly into the sun and feeding vitamin D straight out of the beams. They were there for pretty much the whole hour that I sat with my book.
There are community gardens and city farms in unexpected places. I spent years walking past the road where The Phoenix Garden hides away, unbeknown to this wild secret garden in the middle of the Westend. It is run by volunteers and feels more homely than the council run parks.
I could dedicate a whole blog for a year to parks. But I don't want to (although if it meant I could work in Leslie Knope's office, I would). So, I end on this, the Abney Park Cemetery, in Stoke Newington. It is one of London's 'Magnificent Seven' Cemeteries; large scale cemeteries created in response to London's population boom in the 19th century. Abney Park has been quietly conquered by nature. It bursts and hangs with lush unruliness. Plant life grows where and however it does. Graves are covered around and over with plants, although it is touching to see that some, even those of half a century old, still have devoted visitors. It is my favourite place of solitary wanderers and maintains convincing countryside stillness in the middle of the urban drama.
Abney Park, Stoke Newington, Hackney. November 2013:
In London, space is in constant negotiation. I, and most people I know here live packed together in shared and overpriced accommodation. People flock to live here and therefore space is valuable. Entire families, even in wealthy boroughs, are reduced to sharing one bedroom in more instances than most are aware. Aggression streams along the roads, because the city is not designed for as many vehicles as it holds. My physical cycling body is often in the space where a car, taxi or bus wants to be, and they express their dissatisfaction with impassioned hand-codes, ambiguous horn blasts and by screaming unrepeatable outrage. Pedestrians hurtle down pavements with such speed and determination that I often use cyclist arm signals to manoeuvre as a pedestrian without realising. Once a friend of mine was reminded by a fellow pedestrian, that "it is not Formula One".
Everyday on my lunch hour I am drawn optimistically to a coffee shop, romantically idealising I'll find a quiet haven in which to read a book. This is never what I find, in any of the coffee places in Central London, apart from if I am willing to have lunch at 10am or 4pm. The reality is a merciless scramble for temporary space ownership. This was dramatically confirmed to me recently, when a business man literally posted his espresso under my arm to swipe the table I was sitting down at. I stared accusingly at him from the table I soon found a few metres over. But when he gave me a sorrowful glance, I sadly realised he was going through a similar torment as me, in this packed together city on fast forward.
I don't know what I'm saying with all this yet (especially since the thoughts in my head are competing for space with a cat banshee chorus that is resonating from the garden). This is how London is. It is the sum of it's people's decisions and efforts, restrictions and ignorances over many centuries. Maybe when there are so many different people working on a place at once, and there have been throughout history, it becomes more an untameable beast than a project we can strategically steer. Probably many people don't want it to change anyway and these folk excitedly stomp and slide around the urban hum and clatter, dancing with the beast and drinking it all in. I never thought that London was a place for me though, but maybe I'll never think that of any place (but that's a whole other world of confusion). Anyway, what I'm realising, in my pursuit for personal space here, is 1) I am a highly distractible person living in a city of distractions, but 2) it is always possible to sculpt a different existence, even with small changes.
Self Preservation in a Big City Technique Number 1: Parks
London has a lot of parks and public gardens. Apparently "London is Europe's greenest major city" and 40% of its surface area is publicity accessible green space.
The lesser known ones are cheering to stumble across, if you take the time to explore the snickets and alley ways between buildings, especially the ones that look private. Such as the gardens of barrister offices like Inner Temple Garden and the Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn Fields (despite the stuffy names).
My saviour park is Lincoln's Inn Fields, as it is right by my office. It is pretty well known, but even still remains a pocket of slowed down time, shielded from the city mania by high London Plane trees and a square of Regency/Georgian terrace houses. The grand London Planes stand like they have been caught mingling, arms outstretched to express their tree wisdom and preserve the stillness of the air beneath them. As an aside there is a dog that walks here who's owner calls him 'Little Man'.
Favoured experiences here include one cold February day, when the sun had come out of prolonged hiding, I came across 5 people in separate locations within the park, standing like statues, staring directly into the sun and feeding vitamin D straight out of the beams. They were there for pretty much the whole hour that I sat with my book.
There are community gardens and city farms in unexpected places. I spent years walking past the road where The Phoenix Garden hides away, unbeknown to this wild secret garden in the middle of the Westend. It is run by volunteers and feels more homely than the council run parks.
I could dedicate a whole blog for a year to parks. But I don't want to (although if it meant I could work in Leslie Knope's office, I would). So, I end on this, the Abney Park Cemetery, in Stoke Newington. It is one of London's 'Magnificent Seven' Cemeteries; large scale cemeteries created in response to London's population boom in the 19th century. Abney Park has been quietly conquered by nature. It bursts and hangs with lush unruliness. Plant life grows where and however it does. Graves are covered around and over with plants, although it is touching to see that some, even those of half a century old, still have devoted visitors. It is my favourite place of solitary wanderers and maintains convincing countryside stillness in the middle of the urban drama.
Abney Park, Stoke Newington, Hackney. November 2013:
