‘The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.” – Stephen Fry
It is Spring.
The City of Westminster is bathed in glorious sunshine.
Celebrating the tardy arrival of warmth, Her Majesty Elizabeth II has apparently proclaimed a national drinking Holiday.
Vast congregations of ambitious twenty/thirty somethings pour out of Public Houses into narrow lanes and musty mews to compete in local evening sport: escaping sobriety, inhaling noxious vapors, abandoning moral discretion.
Shakespeare’s verse is embedded in timbers of olde structures, Dickens’ characters are scored in faces darting in shadows, and Lennon’s nihilism is fresh discourse in Parliament and tabloid gossip.
God save the Queen!
We exalt in orgies (well…, lots) of enthralling theatre, sacred music that carries our spirits aloft, immersive hi-lo galleries and museums , determined walking, and artful-dodging of chaos in the streets.
London is alive and entertaining. The Commonwealth calls cosmopolitan legions home to roost, redefining “what is British?”
We don’t have a clue.
We conduct daily research for answers, close to our quarters just by Exmouth Market, an urban village in Clerkenwell.
Here architects, designers, and American hackers sip “flat white” coffees harmonizing with local building-trades blokes, mothers socializing above the mayhem of gingerbread kids, and exotic residents from far-away cultures.
Everything we require is at our doorstep: artisan breads and jams, iron monger, hair-stylist Stefano, Iraqi shawarma, fast-food sushi, gastro pubs…
Our sojourn in London is familiar, and foreign, and fanciful.
Upon reflection, the Queen is doing just fine.
All images captured on iPhoneXs. Click on any photo to ride the carousel:
