The train slows. People reach for coats and bags. We shall soon be into the busyness of London.
We step off the train and the quick unseeing march towards the Underground begins.
Oh, the smells and sounds of London. Unforgettable. Unmissable.
Below, that familiar but not unpleasant mustiness. Stand clear of the doors please. Stand clear of the doors. Mind the gap. Mind the gap.
The wind precedes the sound and sight of the train. It arrives. We file on. The doors swish to and then we rattle, rumble and screech towards our destination.
We arrive at my station. I negotiate the stairs and exits. I can see where I need to be. Baker Street. The home of a great detective.
Ting,ting,ting go the lights and I cross the road I could have walked under.
Usually I’m here too early. In the summer I can sit in the park. Greater London has over 3000 green spaces and 18% of its land is made up of parks. You’re never more than a short walk away from one of them. So, on a warm day I can take my humble picnic to Regent’s Park. You can smell the green. It’s odd to think that you’re in one of the most populated cities in the world. On colder days I’ll treat myself to a fancy coffee and indulgent cake and snuggle down in the basement of the coffee shop. I have my laptop. I have my notebook. I have people to watch. International students are here. They bring us joy and zest for life.
And so we three – or sometimes four or five – meet again in the snazzy lounge of that cosy hotel named after one of London’s most famous fictional detectives. It is quiet here. Sacred even. We are served tea or wine. The furnishings are plush. Other voices are quiet. We are cocooned from the world here, yet part of it.
We exchange our stories. We tell each other what works well and what works less well. We make suggestions. We, like Sherlock himself, are sleuths. We look at the world. We see it for what it is. We explain it to others. Write what you know, they say. To know you have to experience. And there is so much to experience here in London.
As we go homeward we become more aware of the stories that this great city offers us: its rich history, its red buses and black hackneys that ferry adventurers to their goals, and people of all classes, ages and ethnicities moving shoulder to shoulder through its streets. A gentle rain falls but doesn’t disturb. The buildings shelter us. You can hear a multitude of languages being spoken, few of which you understand. That is to celebrate, not to fear. I am hungry now and even on the station concourse I am spoilt for choice. My train arrives and I am moving back towards a gentler place. I shall miss this great city and its stories.
*****
Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing.
