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Londontown: A Photographic Tour of the City's Delights

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Susannah Conway

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“From his vantage point on the window sill, The Dude cocked a rear leg back over his head and proceeded to lick at his private parts with a thoroughness that would make a lesser man blush. I shook my head at the sight and mumbled, “Show off,” in the animal’s general direction. For a moment the tiny kitten hesitated, leg still extended behind its head, face still over its crotch. It narrowed its eyes at me, let out a displeased sound, then promptly got back to work. I suppose there are worse things than being a cat.”

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“Londoners have intense loyalties to the areas from which they come. Those born in Croydon will argue that theirs is a borough with access to the green belt, excellent shopping and wide, pleasant streets, while the rest of the city flatly knows that Croydon is a soulless hole whose only redeeming feature is the novelty of the electric tram and a large DIY store with reasonable parking. Likewise, those from Hackney would contend that their borough is vibrant and exciting, instead of crime-ridden and depressed; those from Acton would argue that their suburb is peaceful and gentle instead of soul-destroyingly dull, samey and bleak; and the people of Amersham would proclaim that their town is the ideal combination of leafy politeness and speedy transport links instead of, clearly, the absolute end of the earth. However, no one, not one mind worthy of respect, could defend Willesden Junction as anything but an utter and irredeemable dump.”

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“I watch the buses, the people, the pigeons even, all busily going about their day in the sunshine. And I feel a kind of wave of love for it all. OK, there’s noise, fumes, bits of litter gusting along in the summer breeze. But even so, London doesn’t look like a world of stress to me anymore. It looks like a place of endeavour, of human connection, of chances. I’m enjoying life, I think as I take my coffee. I’m enjoying the ride. And that’s all you can ask.”

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“Outside the sky was iron grey, the monotony broken only by crows. Mile after mile and the scenery did not change. Stubble fields, skeletal trees. They are burying me, she realised. They are burying me along with Rupert. It wasn't meant to be like this. They should have been back in London by now; the house thrown open, spilling over with wine and candles. This season vivid dyes were in fashion. The salons would be awash with azuline, mauve, magenta and Paris green. She should be there at the centre of it: invited to every diamond-spangled party; hanging on the arm of the host in his striped waistcoat; the first lady escorted into the dining room. The new bride always went first. But not a widow. A widow shied from the light and entombed herself with grief. She became a mermaid drowning in black crêpe, like the Queen. Elsie sighed and stared into the hollow reflection of her eyes. She must be a terrible wife, for she did not long for seclusion. Sitting in silence musing on Rupert's virtues wouldn't help her grief. Only distraction could do that. She wanted to attend the theatre, to ride up and down on the rattling omnibuses. She would rather be anywhere than alone in these bleak fields.”

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