London Baby

London Baby

That unease you feel when you’re becoming ‘at one’ with that gentleman’s armpit on the 8.05 is not in fact a moment of microcosmic clarity where life, you realise, is pointless- no, that ripple is the recognition that you’re being pulled in a current that is not necessarily your own and semi-jogging through Bank it’s no more than a flutter, it’s no more than an itch at King Cross or a trapped nerve at Clapham junction but it will pervade and get you in your sleep until you voice it; if I'm not hurrying somewhere too then my god I must be useless.

Run baby run, because if they jostle and jam, you must pant and puff to fit in with the chorus, for if you voice such blasphemies as “After you, I’m not in a rush,” then there must be less value in the footsteps you are pressing into the pavement. All those shiny shoes have no time to slow for on-coming shoulders, bumping bones and silent sorry’s. Can you imagine how great their purpose must be that they have no eyes for those begging for a burger at Fenchurch street, no eyes for the light on the river, for the birds that still sing at St Pauls. They are not alone because they are in a hurry, but you are if you stop. So run baby run.

New look New Space.

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