I am crouched, vagrant-like, on the crazy pavement outside the hallowed doors of an ivory tower of modern fashion slavery on Oxford Street. Feeling black, blue, and confused. Thinking of how maybe we are all simply co-existing on fast food credit, borrowed loan time, and prime purchasing power, geared for a lifetime’s walk on rubber trainer soles made in China.
I am tuning into the sound of anti-theft alarms firing off, the ceaseless ring of cash tills, and the screeching brakes of London scooters, cabs, and buses. Feeling like the invisible man, in the City, where in a thousand ways you can be made to disappear like a Chinese dissident mime artist.
My identity began to fragment the second I cautiously minded the gap off the train on Platform 13 of the London Bridge station.
Time is money.
The mantra racing through my mind.
A gilt-edged spoke on the well-greased golden clock face of the City machine.
Wandering aimlessly round the pleasure palace stalls of Borough Market – mingling with the monied masses and classes, inhaling the waft of stale decomposing binbags, and hearing the rolling rail stock grinding overhead – I readied myself for a serrano-ham over fist fleecing.
Stopping for a selfie by the Wheatsheaf, I reflected on the drunken dockworker ghosts of yesteryear, shaking the white-hot gold coins out of my jeans leg onto the market floor, already feeling woefully jaded and faded.
Following the River Thames, I could feel the fear of the trepidatious City watercourse as it wound its way towards the infinity pool of the Ocean. I wondered at the fleets of vessels gracing these historic waters, from the medieval fishing boat to the modern HMS warship. With every step towards the London Dungeons of Southbank, feeling the cloak of invisibility draw tighter and tighter like a hangman’s noose.
I listened carefully to the scripted authenticated actor, deep in squalid 17th century character, in the deep underground maze of the tourist tour from Hell. I partook of the depraved torture delights meted out by the powers that be on the rebel fringes of society. And spared a passing thought for the legions of prisoners of conscience disappeared without a trace of a headstone in this City of swallowed souls.
Hours later – after a hop, skip, and a tube jump over the River – I am in the pace-maker beating heart of the City, being shook down for gold coins in a golden pagoda restaurant during Happy Hour.
Deep in a pile of bamboo basket of steamed dumplings and green bottles of Chinese brand beer, I finger my plastic card of purchase power, wondering when my soul left, and this spirit ghost took over the reins. I am thinking of the southbound Train to Skaville.
Powering down with a CTRL, ALT & DEL of the rail commuter laptops, I feel a glitch in the matrix as the carriage rocks its way for the south coast of the Island. And, as the train rolls through warm sunset kissing the countryside beyond, I breathe a little easier sensing the soul return to the journey home.
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