On the launch of the Crew Dragon 30.5.20 or Why the World Needs a Rocket Launch Right Now

Millennials weren’t there when man stepped on the moon in 1969 but for many of us, it feels as if we were. Overlying grainy footage of the Apollo 11 launch are Hollywood moviestars swaddled in spacesuits. Imagination demands fodder and for better or worse, these are the images that build a person’s idea of space. But no matter how many times we superimpose Tom Hanks’ face over that of Neil Armstrong’s (1), the core of the tale is unimpeachable.

Three men, two racing countries and one small step…

Half a century later and a contingent still holds vigil, our faces turned to Cape Canaveral, that most hallowed location for space flight. The situation is different, of course. The world is no longer united in its focus on Florida as a new, disseminated challenge has drawn its attention. And anyway, when it comes to space haven’t we been there and done that? Why the hoo-hah over another rocket launch? Even scientific miracles can be snubbed it seems. 

For those of us that do keep the faith though, our viewing habits have changed. We no longer crowd round the living room television as they did in the 60s. Viewing portals are far more portable these days and we can watch miracles from a computer in any place that has an internet connection. That in itself is a marvel, born of the technology that sent man to the Moon mere decades ago.

No matter from where we view though, the excitement is the same. An afternoon launch allows for hours of commentary and rather than stultifying, it stimulates. Only great global events have such build-up. In a display of modern day mindfulness, one real time broadcast dominates, even if it sputters softly in the background as we do the laundry. But make no mistake, this day transcends the norm.

The digital clock whizzes inexorably towards 00:00 and as it does, blood adrenaline levels exponentiate, accelerating heart rates towards fight or (in this case most definitely) flight. When the final ten digits approach we too join in, counting down with exactly the same excitement as the children in the room.

With the magic words, we have lift-off. Clouds billow, expanding in tempests as man strives to harness nature’s violence for its own purpose. Through this a blaze of yellow pierces, intense enough to sear the vision even from a LED computer screen and then with a grace incongruous to the tumult below, the rocket lifts, resolute in its course to the big black beyond. At its tip, strapped in like tiny dolls, are two humans.

For many of us that is where reason fails. This incredible spectacle is entirely man-made and were we to devote ourselves to the study of astrophysics, we too could eventually understand the science that sends a man to space. But that is outside the realms of possibility for the majority of us with everyday jobs. Instead we must look on in wonder as a webcam on a spaceship relays images of our own blue-green planet via satellites, which were in turn launched in a blaze of fire and gas from our Earth. The mind boggles and then shuts down.

Maybe that is why only a relatively small group tune into rocket launches nowadays as opposed to the fifth of the world’s total population that watched Apollo 11’s take-off in 1969. Little wonder that when faced with the remarkable we default to the familiar. Instead of crowding round to watch humans leave our planet, we switch the channel back to the same news narratives, in much the same way that we shutter out the astonishing bird’s eye view from an aeroplane to look at a newspaper.

But for those of us who can bear to confront such extreme concepts the reward is wonder. To watch a rocket launch is to reorient towards the sublime, something that is too easily forgotten in the mire of an earthbound pandemic. Yes, humankind has problems galore but it also has aspiration, an unassailable desire to achieve more. For those of us sickened by the current state of the world we would do well to lift our gaze beyond the status quo and retrain our sights on the stars. We would join past generations, who have stared upwards and wondered how to escape the bonds of earth.

Only this time we have the knowledge to do so. Gravity itself can be overcome. The metaphor is especially poignant in these despairing times. Take heart and watch the rocket launch, knowing that no matter what the obstacle, no matter how improbable the odds, humankind can transcend it.

(1)    Yes, I know that Tom Hanks played Jim Lovell, a completely different astronaut who was on Apollo 13 rather than Neil Armstrong, who was on Apollo 11. The mind works in mysterious ways.

Friday Night in London

Here it comes again.

The sun sets, leaching what little colour there is in the residual clouds of the Atlantic storms and I am faced with that weekly question - what should I do tonight? Most days of the week this is a moot point as I have become a devout member of the 8-hours-a-night lobby but on weekends something stronger overrides the waves of sleep.

Guilt.

From my window I can see the lights of Canary Wharf glittering in 50 shades of halogen. The Isle of Dogs looks actively electric, like Gotham but on steroids and behind it lies more of the capital by night. The city stretches on for miles, its pubs and clubs and famous landmarks all still overrun by tourists and drunk locals, who stagger between the floodlit monuments. And I spectate from afar knowing that on Friday night I have no excuse not to join in.

As the sky darkens the pressure starts to mount. Look! There it is! So exciting in the distance! Why aren’t you in it? Why aren’t you at one of the million events on in London tonight? The issue with relocating, however, is that is takes time to find one’s feet and one’s friends, which are the base requirements for a successful social life. Of course, I could go out by myself on a Friday night and sometimes I do, but doing that every week would soon become melancholic. This is why when it finally happened, when I finally had a Friday night out, it came six months after moving and felt worthy of blog a deconstruction thereafter.

It started with friends, the base constituents of a social event. After half a year I had spoken to my colleagues enough times to remember most of their faces if not their names. We had just started sticking loosely together at meetings when one brave soul suggested a night out the following weekend. Many of us jumped at the chance to do something in a group, which is a rarity for most of us single-occupancy dwellers.

The question then came as to what we should do? And this is where the sheer size and opportunity of London can lead to a failure to launch. There is almost too much choice, too many possibilities for fun and food. Rather than booking a table at the local Chinese restaurant, as had been the case in previous cities I had worked in, London offered a whole town of Chinese restaurants, none of which were particularly local to any of us, scattered as our home addresses were across the big city. Unending debates about cuisine and location were gladly sacrificed in the interests of not clogging the Whatsapp stream. We would be having Korean somewhere central.

But something threatened the night out. As I plodded back home from work that Friday I could feel inertia setting in. Canary Wharf was just beginning its nighttime display but it seemed far far away and central London was further still. The lure of pyjamas proved almost fatal to my motivation. But somehow I managed to ignore the siren call of soft flannel and left the flat again.

I am not sure whether the others had faced this war of wills too, for most of those who had rsvp-ed, showed up. This disparate group of adults descended the stairs of Kimchee in Holborn and from there the fun began. Relying on trusted methods to diffuse social anxiety, we started with Soju before even ordering food. It worked to such great effect that by the time the bibimbap and bulgogi were brought out tongues had been loosened and conversation had moved onto juicy office gossip.

In a jovial haze we tottered through the streets of London, walking past historic monuments and making silly jokes. It brought to mind similar tipsy walks from University years but how much better it was now with earnt money in the pocket and without the self-consciousness of new adulthood.

Liberated, we took full advantage of what London had to offer. From the restaurant we went to a refined wine bar, only to roll at closing time from there to its polar opposite, a sticky karaoke bar. Packed into a 8 x 8m purple padded cell, we belted out power ballads with our arms slung across each other’s shoulders, newly minted brothers in arms rather than work colleagues.

When we finally emerged after two hours of raw singing London was still awake and open for business. The indefatigable touch-screens at MacDonalds took our orders, only for a zombified worker to hand us our brown bags of burgers and fries. It was a cliched end to the night out but like most cliches, at its heart it was satisfying.

Such night outs cannot be replicated every weekend but having experienced it once, I know there is potential for more. No longer am I filled with anxiety as the sun sets on a Friday night. Instead I walk to my window and look forward to the lights of London turning on.

A Tale of Two Cities

The New Year began with a bang.

Shortly before the new decade was to begin I left my flat and joined the throngs on the stairwell. Something unusual was happening. It was 11.50 p.m. and Londoners were leaving their homes en masse to head to the Thames. The scene echoed a ropey science-fiction movie as crowds possessed by some unseen, alien force moved in one direction to the river. Us lemmings gathered on the banks and waited for the signal. People started to chant.

“Five, four, three, two, one!”

The new year had begun. It must have done for the fireworks were popping along the lengths of the river in haphazard, beautiful excess. People celebrated by igniting shop-bought sparklers and boozy renditions of Auld Lang’s Syne were heard in asynchronous chorus all along the riverbank.

When the firework displays had died away it was back to bed and the next day dawned grey and sober. Normal service had been resumed. This January depression lasted for two weeks before I crossed the cloud barrier in an Airbus A350 and left London beneath, heading for the warmer climes of Sri Lanka instead.

Sri Lanka, the homeland of my parents, is a country familiar to me but each time I touch down from the aircraft I am astonished at the difference. As soon as the plane doors open the heat blasts in a way inconceivable when in Europe. It is a moist, baking heat that feels as muggy as the inside of a lung. There is little respite from sticking one’s tongue out as dog’s do to cool off. The temperature is equivocal.

That tropical signifier, palm trees, line the edges of the runway and the tarmac shimmers with a heat haze mirage. Even on the hottest days in London the weather cannot compare. Heat and humidity are the way of life in Sri Lanka, the land revolves around this fact. The day starts early. As the sun rises, so do the people, capitalising on the few hours of respite when the temperature is in the mid-twenties. Then as the country wakes up the inevitable traffic starts to build.

Woe betide if you travel through Colombo during working hours. Even if you do nip along the new Expressway from the airport to the city in 20 minutes, the subsequent traffic will ground you. Congestion is an issue familiar to many capital cities, not least London, but in Colombo it is truly in another league.

Take, for comparison, buses. In London the red double-deckers are the patriarchs of the public transport system. The London General Omnibus Company was in service long before the Underground came along and whilst no longer as iconic as in the days of the old Routemaster, most people usually give way to the lumbering vehicle as it pulls out. In Sri Lanka, however, buses are a law unto themselves. These bright-blue beasts scream past the lower lying vehicles with an ear-splitting horn, the sound of which must surely be the recorded trumpet of a charging bull elephant. The other traffic is similarly as lawless, straddling lanes and merging without indication. Scurrying into any remaining space are a swarm of tuk-tuks, their tripod wheels and black canvas rooves making them look like opportunistic beetles from afar.

But for all the petrol fumes the traffic chaos is in keeping with the essence of a capital city. Chaos equals energy, energy equals excitement and Colombo thrums with all of the above. Incredible though it sounds, Colombo is more vibrant than London. With fewer planning restrictions in place the city develops without constraint, with jumbled shacks clustering next to new high-rise skyscrapers. Aided by tropical rain, plants flourish despite the rampant urbanisation and the city is always illuminated, either by the dazzling sun in the day or the prolific neon of the night.

As in London, the bustle can be wearing but respite can also be found in Colombo. Instead of a murky brown river, the blue-grey Indian Ocean provides a source of soothing contemplation as it stretches out forming the western boundary of Colombo. On weekends people fly kites on the beachside promenade known as Galle Face Green and amass there on national days of celebration. I wonder whether next New Year’s Eve I too will join the crowds in Colombo as they walk to the water?

For the time being, however, I shall have to content myself with the Thames. Small, strange twists of fate brought me to the banks of this river in London but I cherish the thought that I will always have another capital city to call my home.

Sugar and Spice and Saris

I had been on the tube for longer than I thought was possible.

Looking at the London Underground map distances mean nothing, such is its topological genius. On familiar stretches e.g. the hop, step and jump between Leicester Square and Covent Garden, the time between stops is miniscule, such that it hardly seems seems worthwhile riding the never-ending escalator down to the Piccadilly line (indeed on busy days, it is actually more efficient to walk between the two landmarks). However, toward the outer edges of the map the distances elongate and a tube ride is upgraded to a journey.

Emerging from the underground tunnels that secretly traverse the heart of London, the tube becomes a denizen of light. Its smooth, aerodynamic form slips along overground tracks like an earthworm exposed, snaking past football fields and terraced houses.

I had started my journey in the halogen-lit confines of North Greenwich tube station, thus to find myself staring out at winter skies from Chiswick Park station, was disorientating to say the least. And still my journey went on taking another 10 minutes, an aeon on the tube, to reach my desired stop at Alperton.

Mention Alperton to any person of Southeast Asian origin and they will instantly know what that signifies. In the same bracket as Southall or Wembley, Alperton is an Asian enclave in London, an ersatz India for all those who miss the motherland or need some pukka goods.

The Asian association was evident the moment I stepped off the tube into the contradictory open-aired “Underground” station when I finally reached my destination. A smell of spices wafted along the platform, an aroma familiar to me from the “curry” cupboard at home, where odd shaped kernels and powders lay in repurposed Schwartz jars, ready to be used in the magic meals my mother made on the stove. With warm memories bringing a spring to my step I tapped out at the barriers and headed to the town centre to meet my family.

The roads leading to the main shopping strip were another throwback to my childhood. In such semi-detached houses family friends lived and as I passed other pedestrians, all invariably Asian, they could easily have passed for aunties and uncles that I knew. The feeling of kinship was striking, all the more so for seeing my own family, finally assembled together after two years apart.

It is hard to believe that I have not seen my sister in two years, her move to Australia being mitigated by frequent weekend Facetimes. Apart from the restrictions imposed by the 11 hour time difference I thought I hardly felt the distance as I was speaking to her more regularly than I did when she was living a mere 60 miles from me. But seeing her again and hugging her brought the separation into stark relief. I had missed her.

In amongst the glitter of a sari shop my sister and I joked as my mother surveyed the fabrics, looking for something special, something wedding-worthy. The shop assistants, who were without exception bored teenage girls in salwar kameez, padded bare-foot on mattresses, bringing down sari after sari to display at our behest. The saris lay stacked from floor to ceiling displaying only a two-inch thick wedge of their material and from this we had to decide whether it was worth unravelling. Little wonder the assistants were irritated at our presence as no sooner had they unfolded the six meters of material, than we dismissed it with the fickleness of the paying customer.

Suffering from a lack of inspiration the newly reuinted Kariyawasams decided it was time for another classic Alperton tradition - we went for a meal.

Going to an Indian restaurant in Alperton is like having a pastrami sandwich in New York; there is nothing more authentic unless it is home-cooking. Even then, my parents, who can both cook wondrous Sri Lankan dishes, anticipate a genuine Asian meal. They do not visit Indian restaurants unless they are in such areas like Alperton or Southall. My parents are connoisseurs and this exclusive attitude is at odds with the places they visit. Although they may look unprepossessing to the outsider, the restaurants of Alperton serve some of the best Asian food in the whole of London.

On this occasion we visited Fudam, a spangle-filled Indian restaurant with Bollywood actors plastered on the walls. Ordering favourites like chicken biryani and lamb rogan josh, the dishes came perfectly spiced and delectable. Buttery naan accompanied the basmati and it was exceptional fare worthy of a family reunion. With bellies full we braced against the cold once again, bolstered by a sneaky nibble of syrup-soaked jalebi from the Ambala sweet store.

Just as we were beginning to fear not all Bombay Dreams come true and that my mother would come away from Alperton empty handed we spotted another sari store situated away from the main drag. There was something about the RCKC Asian couture shop that overcame the burrow-seeking desire that accompanies a heavy meal, thus instead of waddling back to the car we took one last chance at sari shopping.

As soon as we entered the store there was something different about it. The saris in the storefront display were unlike those we had seen before. Instead of the current trend of heavy stonework these saris were delicate and sumptuously embroidered. For all their finery , however, it was not the wares that convinced us, it was the vendor.

Vandana was as different to the previous slack-jawed shops assistants as the gorgeous saris in RCKC were to the nondescript patterns we had seen before. Vandana, an elegant lady in a long black cardigan, welcomed us in to the store with a manner of gentle confidence and command, something that usually only comes with years of experience. She knew how to charm a customer and sell clothes. She was so good at this that she had transcended the label of salesperson, she was actually a maestro.

“Come round to the back, let me show you something special,” she said, giving us the feeling of exclusivity. No doubt she says that to every client but such was her skills of persuasion that we felt it to be true. And indeed it was. Reaching to the fabrics behind her she brought out the most stunning materials, explaining in detail the craftsmanship behind each piece. These were no outfits, these were works of art.

Convinced by the quality and moreover by Vandana we left with a sari befitting the mother-of-the-bride. As we walked out into the cold Christmas air faces that could be friends smiled back at us. Surrounded by familiarity and family, I finally felt like I was home.

With special thanks to Vandana at RCKC, Alperton.

A family reunited

The City of Villages

What does London bring to mind?

As an alumnus of the Home Counties the thought of London instantly prompts a vision of the iconic silhouettes of the city: St Paul’s, Big Ben and more recently the London Eye and the Gherkin. No matter that these famous entities are miles apart, their visual grouping provides a helpful “best-of” that for me at least, has been linked to the name “London” ever since I first saw a pop-up card with the contracted skyline.

Now as a bona fide Londoner, albeit a peripheral Londoner, who lives slightly more than 10 miles away from the King Charles I statue in Charing Cross from which distances are measured, I find my associations with the city have changed. The very fact that I am so far away from the centre means my perspective is different. I don’t just mean visually, although I do experience an eastern shift in skyline (Canary Wharf dominates my stretch of the river rather than the more westerly “Famous Four”), but because of my location Greater London forms my everyday backdrop rather than the postcard centre of the city. As such I have discovered that London holds so much more than that iconic stretch of river along the Victoria Embankment.

Before metropolitan sprawl unified London into one great conurbation, villages dotted the outskirts of the city. They still exist but the intervening spaces have been developed with buildings erected on the open ground, turning patches of ordnance survey green into grey grids of urbanisation. Into this transport lines extend and along the outer tentacles of the famous tube map you can find a different take on London.

On two occasions my weekend explorations have taken me outside zone 1 to localities which are removed from the usual central hubbub. My first trip took me to Greenwich, the place where the world splits in two. Alighting from the DLR, a few metres from the station is the Cutty Sark, a 19th century clipper ship of tea trading fame, which towers above the masses, impressive beyond measure. What a welcome to a World Heritage Site. From there history and affluence seeps through the town. The Royal Naval buildings abut the Cutty Sark and a walk around the grounds evokes an imagined glory of old. The tall stone buildings have the same majesty of St Paul’s but here, unlike in the confines of the central city, symmetry and space makes for a more powerful vista.

Beyond the naval colleges Greenwich Park rises to offer two gifts to the determined walker. Most obviously is the Royal Observatory with its obligatory Kodak moment of people straddling the Greenwich Meridian Line. East meets West in the most British of environs. Nonetheless the significance of the place is undeniable. Time, distance, our very heavenly location are all bound up with this linear strip - here is where the astronomical definition of our planet begins.

The second offering from Greenwich Park is an unrivalled view of the city. Turn away from the hodgepodge buildings of the Observatory and London spans the horizon in cinemascope. The Thames curves around the view before disappearing behind the Royal Naval buildings, which look equally impressive in miniature. This alternate view of London, from a distance, from an elevation is something one can only grasp from the edge of the city. It is breath-taking.

Head north of the river, a way up along the Northern Line and you can experience another place with miracle views and impossible mortgages. Hampstead used to be distinct from London, a village from which the poet Keats used to set out, risking his life and lungs to walk the 4 miles to the central city. It is now considered a posh enclave of the capital with lush facades and more millionaires than any other part of the UK.

The streets of Hampstead have an atmosphere similar to that of maritime Greenwich. The shops are chic with facades in royal colours of navy, burgundy and plum and there are fairy lights everywhere. The Love Actually aspiration works in this context as the area is affluent enough to emulate a film set. There is no grit, no deprivation on display here and thus, it feels distinct to the diversity of central London.

Hampstead is perhaps most well known for its dog-walking mecca, the Heath. More vast than Greenwich Park, it too rises via outcroppings of trees and grassy plains to provide a lookout over London. This time the view is rotated, a northern panorama from Parliament Hill, which shows London at more of a distance. From here nearly all the sights of the pop up card are visible but then so too are the spaces in between. Spaces? What spaces? London is no longer the London of skyline and separation, it is a spiky landscape chock full of skyscrapers. There is no rhythm or coherence to the overview if ever there were one.

And that speaks to the nature of London. It is not one entity, not one stretch with a few distinct identifiers, no, it is a souped-up mass of different areas with their own identities, which have all been subsumed into one metropolis. In doing so it is more than the sum of its parts - it is the greatest city in the world.

The Cutty Sark

The Royal Naval buildings

The view from Greenwich Park

Hampstead Heath

Another view of London

The view from Parliament Hill, Hampstead Heath

Treasure Island

As much as I love my new home, London’s frenzied centre still gets to me. Be it Sunday’s supposed “day of rest” or a regular Tuesday afternoon, the streets of central London are invariably choked with cars and people. To the newcomer the relentless bustle can be exhausting.

This is why the prospect of an hour’s transit time near Kings Cross St Pancras station was less appealing to me than it should be. One hour in London? What could I do with that? After enduring a busy journey on the Northern Line up to Kings Cross, did I have it in me to struggle with/against fellow travellers along the packed streets of Camden? Or would it be better to eek out a coffee in the station, scrolling the minutes away online?

One of the things that makes the streets of central London overrun with human and vehicle traffic is the proximity of attractions. Like lodes of precious metals famous sights are distributed at high frequency along the veins of streets, which means one is never too far from something worth seeing. In this case an hour was adequate time to contend with the crowds and also behold treasure.

In actual fact the train station is incredible enough. I did not need to venture out to see something extraordinary. During my youth Kings Cross station was under perpetual construction, making the last minute dash for the platform even more fraught as I tried to avoid the cordons. Reopened in 2009 the renovation was breathtaking, revealing a space of dramatic scale in the heart of the city. As with Harry Potter’s Platform 9 3/4’s within, the station has the touch of magic about it, seeming larger on the inside that it appears from out. If ever there were a reason to keep faith that the Crossrail is worth the wait (and spiralling costs) King Cross provides a powerful testament.

A literal stone’s throw away is St Pancras station, another marvel of light and latticework. Its front is startling, a seeming apparition of Hogwarts itself. With imposing turrets and a sweeping red-brick facade the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel speaks to the gothic Scottish buildings that supposedly influenced J.K. Rowling. The station itself, however, is a study in airy elevation. Preserving the iron arches of the original Victoria architecture trains from as far afield as Bruges terminate on raised platforms. Passengers step out into a grandeur in keeping with the great continental train journeys of old but then can refresh themselves at one of the modern city chic bars along the length of the tracks. It is the best of all ages.

Spending an hour drinking coffee in such surroundings would be an experience of itself but I had other plans with this time and as such walked over the road to yet another iconic establishment. The British Library’s red-brick facade was much less impressive than that of St Pancras but the marvels inside were unparalleled. For a lover of the written word, libraries to me are as palaces to kings. Here lie books, the distillations of human thought and as a writer, there is no greater aspiration than to have your thoughts read. Libraries are holy places and to be revered.

The British Library is the pinnacle of British libraries and ostensibly the world. With over 170 million items it has the world’s largest catalogue but for all its holdings the British Library retains the same convivial air as the public libraries I grew up with. Walking up the piazza, past Paolozzi’s hulking sculpture of Newton, the British Library follows the tradition of many libraries by remaining non-descript in appearance. Unremarkable with its stacked slat rooves it is only upon entering the library that the building does its reputation justice.

Emerge from the dingy, low-ceilinged entrance and the vista expands to reveal five floors in colours of cream, custard and terracotta. Despite its stunning open plan architecture the library keeps with tradition and grounds itself in public education. Like many community libraries, the British Library has temporary exhibits, albeit on a grander scale with whole galleries devoted to the displays as opposed to a few felt boards. This season’s exhibition focused on Buddhism and to press the point the library had enlisted a group of Tibetan monks to build a sand mandala in the foyer.

With the screeing noise of the monks’ work resonating through the building, I wound my way up the floors, circling around a central cage of books. Behind black bars tomes in red and olive leather remained imprisoned. King George III’s collection of books formed the core of the library and the remarkable structure ran the entire height of the building. It was a magnificent sight and yet also a poignant one, that such incredible volumes should now be used as a decorative backdrop when they had once been the influencers of kings.

I circled up to the top floor only to have to come directly back down again. During my spiralling walk I noted every desk and chair was occupied. Such was the popularity of the library as a study area that people sat cross-legged on the floor with laptops jutting into the walkways. In the end it was lucky that I only had an hour to spend as there would have been no place to sit and read otherwise.

As I made my way through the foyer, I noticed a small dark opening leading off the main floor. The John Ritblat Gallery had an unassuming entrance and it was with little anticipation that I walked into the shadowy space. But here it lay, treasure buried in a dark room away from the main library. A hand written letter by Jane Austen hung inches from my face whilst in an adjacent cabinet a sheet of musical score displayed dotted minims in Mozart’s own scribble. There were no facsimilies, these were the genuine articles, tangible connections to the greatest artists and authors of all time. In a sequence of firing synapses, thoughts had been translated by muscle, which connected to pen, which created the documents on display. This was as close as I could possibly get to these storied figures, many of whom were my literary idols.

And that is the shock of it. Some of the most precious artefacts in literature are freely observable seven days a week in a small darkened room in central London. There are no queues skirting around the block à la the Mona Lisa and yet, the items on display are as distinguished. What should draw fanfare remains undiscovered and uncelebrated. Up until now. The Ritblat Gallery has now become my Holy of Holies and my favourite place in London. To visit it, is to feel awe.

Never underestimate the potential of an hour in London for here lies buried treasure.

A musical review: Come From Away

100 minutes with your legs squished against the back of the theatre seat in front can turn any fan into a hater. It takes a superior show to divert attention away from tissue damage and instead keep the viewer entertained for that length of time. Thank heavens that Come From Away is such a show.

You might not think it going in. A musical about the immediate aftermath of 9/11? The two seem mutually exclusive but then again, musicals have always been a good medium to transmit heightened emotion. However, with more than enough emotion being transmitted via the news these days, the sense of paying to see more of it is questionable. The term “glutton for punishment” springs to mind. For all its tragic premise though, Come From Away is far from a masochistic exercise.

With its very first sung line orientating the audience to the musical’s setting in Newfoundland, Canada, it is actually the pulsing bodhrán and lilting “Newfinese” accents that impart more of the community countryside tone than the lyric content. In a series of charming-bordering-on-twee skits the audience relives a typical bustling morning in the town of Gander only for Gander to join the world in standing still later on that untypical day, the 11th September 2001.

So often singular tragedies like 9/11 prompt individual reflection with comments like “I remember exactly where I was when I heard the news…” There is far less emphasis on other more tangential experiences of such events, thus it is fascinating to see the reaction from another perspective, especially when that reaction is so gracious and estimable. Following the closure of American airspace in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks, many airborne flights were diverted to the airport near Gander. In these exceptional circumstances the town had to accommodate thousands of stranded passengers and rallied with astonishing effort.

This account does not immediately spring to mind when one thinks of 9/11 but quite rightly, it should be recognised and thankfully the musical element does this tale justice. There is no need for elaborate sets when the music, direction and story are so effectively executed. Firstly, praise goes to the cast, who romp with the same energy from first song to last in a show with no interval. Doubling up as two different sets of characters the company chameleons from being the welcoming inhabitants of Gander to the grounded passenger cohorts using subtle on-stage costume changes. For example, a simple donned jacket differentiates a dyed-in-the-wool Ganderite from the first female captain of American Airlines and there is nothing that would have you believe otherwise.

As ever with ensemble cast productions the risk is that some threads seem underdeveloped and this is particularly true for the relationship story lines. In amongst the drama of such a situation, romantic tensions often appear insignificant in comparison and thus, to garner audience sympathy more time needs to be invested in such characters. This is not possible in such a production and thus if sacrificing anything in the interest of a tighter run-time, love songs like “Stop the World” could be scrapped with little impact on the show.

Come From Away is at its best when focused back on the ensemble with music and community at its focus. The highlight numbers include the riotous “Newfoundlander initiation,” which culminates in what must be the best kissing of a cod that has ever appeared on stage. In an opposite but equally compelling manner the shared prayer is beautiful, a multilayered, multilingual devotion that speaks to the salve of faith after loss.

Underscoring all these songs are a live band tucked in a corner of the stage, who occasionally take the fore and wow everyone around with their talent at spinning a folk tune. Unsuprisingly in this set of curtain calls the applause lasted just as long for the musicians as the cast, as the band took their bows in the form of a playoff, the seven instruments riffing off each other to make for a triumphant end to the performance.

For an infrequent theatre-goer it is always a risk to get tickets for a relatively new show, especially one with no snazzy gimmicks and based upon such awful events. But sometimes taking a risk pays off. Come From Away acts as a reminder that more often than not, challenging situations bring out the best in people and despite what the papers may say, most people are kind and charitable. In times like these such reaffirmation is invaluable and worth the discomfort of spending a 100 minutes wedged between two theatre seats.

The 47 to Shoreditch

Four hours of waiting in A&E is enough to make anyone’s bum go numb.

That begs the question why after four hours on those unpadded, unforgiving chairs, anyone would elect to spend their first hour of freedom post-discharge on a bus seat? Don’t get me wrong, some people have no choice. For many of us the journey back from hospital can be a problematic affair. Board any bus from outside the main entrance of a hospital and it soon becomes evident that there are scores of people who are heading back from appointments, admissions and even their operations via public transport. With only so many seats available and such a variety of ailments there is often an ever so polite game of musical chairs to see who is the most in need and thus, worthy of that precious place right next to the driver and the doors.

Medical staff are not exempt from this interplay. Yes, their journey is more likely to be the return leg following a shift but sometimes they too are heading home after a hospital appointment plus or minus a stint in purgatory aka A&E. Sometimes they choose to celebrate release from this sentence by getting on the nearest bus out of Dodge and riding it to the end of the line.

Which is how I found myself on the 47 bus from Lewisham to Shoreditch one fine Saturday afternoon in September.

The weather was the stuff of childhood cliché. Heightened by the contrast from the interior gloom of an A&E waiting room, I stepped out in to an autumn air so refreshing it can only be described in apple-name adjectives: crisp, delicious, sweet. After the relative pestilence of the hospital, the free air of London was delectable. I gulped it down.

Health was mine and that knowledge was itself a form of deliverance - do pass go, do collect £200. In actual fact when I received my medical reprieve I understood that neither the total sum of money in the bank nor all the properties on the Monopoly board could compare in worth. Such a gift demands recognition, nay, celebration.

Getting a bus into town may seem a paltry way to do this but hear me out. What better way is there to celebrate a new lease of life than to take a tour of one of one of the world’s most exciting cities, discovering a new route and a new destination just because you can? And what better viewpoint is there than from the front seat of the top deck of a New Routemaster bus? On that afternoon I was lucky enough to snag this spot on the 47 bus heading for Shoreditch and was in the best position to watch the spectacle of London unfold.

Welcome to the demigod’s eye view with a breath more elevation than street level but not so high to distance from the world below. This is the Goldilocks perspective - it is just right. From the top deck of a bus different features become noticeable. Exquisite stonework from the second storey of a building is at eye-level, something easily missed from the gravitational confines of a pavement and a phone screen. Who these days actually bothers to look up? And it is not just man-made marvels that are more accessible at this height. As the bus trundles along boisterous trees jostle against the top deck, thwacking the Perspex windows with branches and conkers. Who needs exotic canopy walks when an uncut beech tree wants to get that close on a bus ride?

It quickly became clear that I would not be getting to my destination fast. A Saturday afternoon bus heading centrally from the outskirts of inner London inevitably halts at every stop. Boarding are not only thrifty daytrippers like me, who cross three travel zones for £1.50, but the bus cohort undergoes a rolling transformation as passengers hop on and hop off, all of them trying to get a little further along in their effort to get to shops, parks and homes. I settled in for the long haul.

The journey spooled out like a film reel. Starting at Lewisham Centre, the bus wound past the open market offering a comprehensive view of all the goods on sale. In a display that could rival the bazaars of Morocco, countless sunglasses lay in fastidious lines, their polarised lenses reflecting back the sun in metallic, insect-like shades. Diverse crowds in saris, muumuus and the standard tracksuit, picked through the spoils, capitalising on the fallout from global warming with an extended summer shopping season.

Ignoring the traffic lights chancers raced across the road, taking risks in an attempt to save an extra minute. As the bus tracked past the Elmer Elephant facade of the Glass Mill Leisure Centre the efforts of urban renewal became clear. For all the ill-matched architecture I had to admire the spirit of regeneration. Not content to settle in old ways London was changing, gussying up areas which had previously been synonymous with deprivation to become the new “it” place.

This vein of development was clear as the bus headed to the centre. As it crawled past Deptford, through Bermondsey and Southwark, gentrification was easy to see. The buildings became swankier with well-maintained fronts, which faced out onto broad, tree-lined roads. Occasional glimpses of the Shard or the Thames appeared between these complexes but the best views were for those in the luxury apartments alone. Gradually the pedestrian cohort also changed from multicultural masses to predominantly younger crowds spilling from Scandi-chic cafes and American-style bars. As ever, a big city remains a magnet for youth.

Nearing its destination the 47 saved the best until last. The bus puttered across Southwark Bridge, which straddled a churning, wind-whipped Thames before entering the City proper. People may talk of the obscene architecture as not in keeping with the established look of old London town, but I suggest these people take a trip on the top deck of the 47 before revisiting this opinion. I myself had never been a fan of the outlandish buildings warranting names like the “Walky Talky” or the “Cheesegrater” but a mere 10 minutes bus ride through the City changed my mind.

It was like falling into a kaleidoscope. Walls of glass cut the view in geometric lines from ground level to sky high. Such astounding towers seemed more in keeping with the “Super Size Me” CBDs of the US, however, there was something to be said for so much bright blue glass under an English sky. Here, as in Lewisham earlier in the journey, the city was innovating. Why not bemuse and beguile with a borrowed aesthetic? London was trying out a new look, keeping the best pieces from the old wardrobe and mixing them with the latest fashions from across the globe.

Although it may not work every time at least the constant change speaks to a quality that is vital for any place - aspiration. What is this unceasing cycle of regeneration but a hope for better? Why is anything built but to improve on the previous situation? Each blueprint is a wish for something more fitting, more beautiful, more in line with the utopia we hope the future will bring.

When gifted a fresh chance it speaks to positivity in us all that we look to the constructive. It is in that precious moment of potential, when we have been given the all clear by the doctor or when we view the empty plot of land ready for our vision, that is when we celebrate. And after that moment of thanksgiving passes, we take the first step forward, lay the foundation stone and the journey towards better begins.

Welcome to the Big City

Never have I ever been a Londoner before.

Some may contest this. No matter how many Villanelle hits I commission, the truth will out - I did indeed grow up in Croydon. Whilst for some this negates my first sentence, a protected childhood spent in an outer borough of the capital does not ring true to my perception of the term Londoner. My main exposure to the big city was the 40 minutes of bus journey between school and home and most of the time I couldn’t look out the windows because they were fogged with the breath of forty pubertal teenagers.

In the intervening years I have lived in many different cities and a few different countries. My habitats have been dictated by work, whim and the strongest pull of them all, love, but for all my travels I have never lived in London.

Until now.

A month ago I found myself back in the Promethean nightmare of trying to move as many of my worldly possessions to a new residence. Unhampered by Easyjet luggage restrictions on this occasion I packed as many things as I could into the available space of my mother’s five-door hatchback and tried to fight the burgeoning claustrophobia by holding back my belongings with my face (see picture below). As we sped along the M25 I could barely hear my mother’s disembodied voice coming through a wall of duvet and rice cooker.

We were all a bit panicked. I was moving to London and that came with special considerations. Firstly moving to London meant driving in London. I have found that even the most confident drivers shrink back at the prospect of driving in the city. One particularly opportunistic asian auntie, whose overtaking skills are more suited to F1 than the M1, threw her hands up in horror saying “oh no, no! I couldn’t drive there! That’s in London.”

London’s Boss Bitch reputation follows in other respects too. It is the biggest city in the UK and as such has a certain notoriety. It is the most populous and the most visited of British cities and generates associated praise and denigration. For southerners London is the nearest urban centre and as such develops a reputation for having the grittiest social issues: crime make the headlines more often here than elsewhere. And what happens in London is often transmitted to the rest of the UK, just look at last week’s Brexit debacle for evidence of that. For my parents, delivering their child into the belly of the beast, even though that child is a 30+-year-old, fully-grown woman, still holds its fears.

And such fear is vicarious. After my parents had left I was tasked with the first grocery shop and I was nervous. Yes, I was in a country I had grown up in and unlike in Munich I was pretty sure I could get the right cheese from the deli counter, yet I was still nervous. Due to its preceding reputation my perception of London had become distorted and exaggerated. I walked out of the building expecting to either be stabbed on the doorstep or be shot as a background extra in a Richard Curtis film scene.

Could everyone tell that I was new to the city, I asked myself, as I walked around my purse clamped under my armpit. People for the most part just ignored me. What struck me in comparison to Brighton or Munich was how in amongst the diversity of colours and cultures in London, I fit right in. Here I was no brown thumb sticking out in a body of predominantly white. In this crazy conurbation anything and anyone goes.

This was none more evident than on the weekend of the Notting Hill Carnival. I had never been to the famous street festival even though for the greater part of two decades I had been a mere 14 miles away from the spectacle. Again, London’s intimidating reputation and the recent flashes of crime at the carnival had been enough to put me and more importantly, my mother off. But there was no excuse this time. Curiosity overcame fear and I crossed the city to join the crowds on the hottest recorded late August Bank Holiday weekend.

London was transcendent.

As the throng sizzled under the naked sky, dancers processed down Ladbrooke Grove. What they lacked in body-cover they made up for in the length of their feathers. The long plumes literally tickled noses as they extended from DIY wings, headdresses and other appendages that they were affixed to. It was a riot of colour and noise with soundstages booming bass of such profundity that my breastbone rattled. Even as I left the area I could feel the thump transmitting through years old tarmac, up through my sandals and into my teeth.

It was London distilled. Lining the streets were people of all backgrounds partaking in soca music and glugging pina coladas from hollowed out pineapples. All were welcome and no one was out of place, not even small-girl-in-the-big-city me. Once more, in the most fitting way possible, London lived up to its reputation of being the city of the superlative.

Death by materialism (and rice cooker)