On Car Alarms and Chaos

It’s funny the things you remember about a country when you leave.  I remember after spending a month in one Latin American capital a few years ago, and for all that I enjoyed the amazing cultural sites, the mouth-watering food and the striking scenery, a few months later the only really clear memory I had was the sound of the car-alarms. 

You see, in this particular country, they had eschewed the traditional NRGH, NRGH, NRGH two tone horn sound, and had installed something altogether more varied and ambitious.  Over the course of 40 seconds or so, the alarm cycled between four different sounds, ranging from a police-car like WIO WIO WIO through a slowly ascending WOOOOOOOOOUP WOOOOOOUP and finishing with a high pitched, two note DOO DEE DOO DEE, before going all the way back to the beginning for another round, a coda, if you will. A four part symphony.  The best part?  If the owner trying to turn it off mid-way through the cycle, it didn’t stop there and then, but doggedly carried on until the end of that round was complete. 

Almost every car in this country seemed to be fitted with one, and what it lacked in subtlety of sound it more than made up for in sensitivity of activation.  For this alarm was on a hair-trigger.  A passing cyclist could set it off.  A light breeze would agitate it into action. And the growl of a passing motorbike was guaranteed to trigger every other car in the street, setting off a wake of indignant squealing behind it, like a line of ladies who had just had their bottoms pinched by a passing sex-pest. 

In short, this made for large amount of what we in the UK would term ‘noise-pollution’.  A car fitted with an alarm like that in the UK would instantly have all its windows broken and the offending hooter manually prized out of its housing by a hoard of indignant neighbours.  Hell, we are introducing a ban on unnecessary train announcements, and our airports now pride themselves on never announcing flights.  My dad would never set the burglar alarm in our house when we went away on holiday – just in case it were to go off and annoy the neighbours. The ideal English car-alarm would be the sound of someone delicately clearing their throat and saying under their breath: ‘I’m so sorry to bother you but could you possibly check if I’m being broken into – there’s a good chap’.

But what struck me about said country was that nobody batted an eyelid at what seemed to me an obvious and unnecessary annoyance.  Nobody covered their ears, or narrowed their eyes in annoyance as they struggled to continue conversations over the din, which could be heard at most times, in most streets.

In the same way, nobody seemed to get stressed by the constant, seething traffic, the heat, the choking pollution, the queues round the block to get into the bank or the hospital.  The average day for the average citizen in this city involved a level of inconvenience, frustration, wasted-time, and bureaucratic tedium that would give many people a coronary.  To me it was like a migraine made into a city – every jolt in the road, every deafening siren, every pneumatic drill conspiring to make my eyes hurt and my head start to pound.  

I suppose those living there were simply accustomed to these things.  I could never decide whether this was a good thing or not.  On the one hand, a zen-like calm and indifference to the chaos around seemed like a supremely smart move for one’s mental and physical health.  There was no foot-tapping in the post-office queue here, no heavy sighs or exaggerated eye-rolling when someone took five seconds too long to pack their things in the super-market.  And nobody – but NOBODY – would beep their horn when someone was helping an old lady out of a car and holding up the traffic, even if it took all day. Surely a society with more built-in tolerance for inconvenience and which operates at the pace of the slow and the infirm has to be a happier place than one which aims to operate at the speed of gerbil?

But on the other hand, were people in this country too forgiving of their surroundings? Had they overcome the problem of annoying car-alarms simply by adopting a zen-like indifference, and in the process lost the impetus for reform?  When you first arrive somewhere like this, you have this strong sense that things simply can’t go on.  People will surely not put up with it for much longer, and nor will the system cope.  But wherever you go, you find the exact opposite – people putting up with things, making do, somehow navigating across vast urban sprawls, somehow making their way through impossible webs of corruption, process, inconvenience, delay.  And at the end of doing that each day, they don’t do what we in the UK or US might do – they don’t run a bath and take several painkillers, washed down with a bottle of wine before settling down to a night of stress-induced insomnia.  They don’t show any outward signs of stress or discomfort – no tight shoulders or pursed lips in sight.  In fact, they often go out and party, crowding into tiny bars and even more implausibly busy streets as though daring the city to deafen and overwhelm them. 

Perhaps that’s the only way to survive there – to embrace chaos and shrug off inconvenience, and put aside thoughts of reform.  Certainly reform doesn’t seem to have made us happier; it turns out that living in a quiet, clean and well-run city seems to lead more often towards depression than to euphoria.   It turns out that riding a well maintained, hydrogen cell powered, speed-limit obeying bus is considerably less exciting than being flung down the road in an open-doored, fume-belching, rivet-rattling, free-revving ‘combi’ bus as it hurtles dizzyingly through the city night. 

The Sensible Ones

Photo by Joshua Miranda from Pexels

Growing up in a vicarage, there were always things that couldn’t be discussed outside the family – village gossip, people’s personal problems, dad’s views on members of his congregation, and most sensitive of all, his own future plans. I remember being taken out of school for the day aged 5 or 6 to go and visit another parish on the other side of the country, and being told not to tell anyone (not even the teachers) where I had been. “No comment” I must have said in the playground the next day.

Occasionally dad would come home and say that he had ‘put his foot in it’ about something – by which he usually meant that his views on some topic had become known in the parish, or he had mixed up the names of someone’s mother (whom he had buried) with their daughter (whom he had baptised). Many people came to the house, in all states of mind, (a vicarage is a bit like a pub that only serves tea), and often I was tasked with letting them in and making small talk before dad was ready to see them. I learned not to ask questions about why they were there, nor to comment on their appearance, nor, on occasion, to ask why they were crying.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I was learning to be discreet.

Aged 11, my own future was shrouded in discretion. The local comprehensive was, shall we say, somewhat lacking in OFSTED plaudits, and so I sat the tests for an assisted place at a small private school 20 miles away. These tests and the subsequent interview were conducted without the knowledge of my teachers or peers. If asked whether I was going to the local secondary school, I was simply to say that I didn’t yet know, but that all would become clear in the fullness of time.

And once at said private school, I had to be discreet when interacting with my friends who had gone on to the local comprehensive, being careful not to draw attention to the yawning chasm in life chances which had presumably opened up between us, nor to my school’s extensive sports facilities and wide range of extra-curricular activities, nor to my assisted place (without which my parents couldn’t have afforded the fees).

During my teenage years, topics requiring discretion included my mum’s work (in the local crown court), the location of our holidays (I remember dad once telling a taxi driver that we were going ‘further over’, in order to ward off burglars, he told us later), and the fact that one year, we were unable to afford a television licence. We were not a family prone to idle chit chat. Even around the house there was a need to maintain privacy – dad would always draw the curtains while we were eating to stop people “seeing straight into the kitchen”.

I soon found that with discretion comes trust, and with trust, responsibility. Aged 6 I was escorting the class trouble maker to the headmistress’s office (feeling his collar if he tried to flee en route). Throughout my pre-teen years I was the designated courier for teachers’ notes, the person designated to guard their things when they left the classroom, and the ever-reliable custodian of keys, cash, certificates, contraband or privileged inside information about casting ahead of the christmas play. I could be confident that if I was pulled aside after assembly it was only for the teacher to seek some informal advice on what had really been going on with the boys at the back. When a delegation of children disfigured by the Chernobyl accident came to visit for the day, guess who was the liaison between them and the rest of the class? Aged 10, I was tasked by the year 6 teacher with the job of discreetly double-checking the spellings of the words he wrote on the board. If the school had needed to conduct an internal leak investigation, flush out a cigarette selling operation, or secretly negotiate a treaty with France, there would only have been one name on their lips.

I think the word teachers would have most readily applied to me and my kind would have been ‘sensible’. “He’s always one of the sensible ones” they would tell my parents. But the control and reserve that word implies was really an offshoot of discretion. It wasn’t that I was I felt inhibited in how I could behave; rather that personal indiscipline and over-sharing of my own views would somehow have undermined my reputation as someone to be trusted – a reputation that felt valuable because it was clearly something which adults prized and children largely ignored (thus enabling me to lead a comparatively normal social life). I could play silly games with the other children while inwardly calculating the point at which an adult was likely to intervene if things got out of hand, and withdrawing before that moment came.

This trend continued as a teenager. I made a name for myself as the lead tour-guide for prospective parents and pupils – carefully selecting a route around the school which included the prestige areas but carefully skirted the delapidated ones, and fielding their questions about when the new sports hall might finally open with deft and carefully worded answers. I was the one chosen to front up an interview on local radio about the semi-successful visit of a Caribbean dance troupe, with the teachers correctly assessing that I could convey earnest and innocent enjoyment while also hitting key talking points.

My first holiday job, aged 17, was in a cathedral, where duties included monitoring the flow of visitors, conducting bag searches, and ensuring that people climbing to the top of the tower did so in an orderly and timely fashion (I had access to a tannoy system to enforce this). It was around the time of the Iraq War protests, and on the date of the key march, I could be found on duty outside the cathedral (walkie-talkie in hand), discreetly monitoring the assembled crowd – which I should add, included several people from my year in school – for signs of trouble that could threaten the safety or wellbeing of visitors or the cathedral structure itself. I was very much a law and order teenager.

By now it will not surprise you to learn that my informal role as part of the wider apparatus of state – what Max Weber might term an enforcer of the “monopoly of legitimate violence” – soon converted into a paid position in government. Not for me the post-university gap year (having served as Internal Affairs Officer on the student committee, I hardly need add), but instead a string of sensitive civil service roles. I won’t be giving away any details, but let’s just say that if you needed a note delivering to a former terrorist leader, a remote island supervising for a few weeks, or a delegation of war victims introducing to the Prime Minister at a summit, I was likely to be involved.

I’m far too discreet to say what I do now of course, but it’s fair to say that little has changed. I continue to be bound by a duty of impartiality and political neutrality, so if you overheard me talking down the pub you’d probably catch phrases like “Brexit? – well I can see arguments on both sides”; or “there are no easy answers for politicians at the moment” and “I’m sure everyone involved was doing their best in difficult circumstances”. My private life tends to reflect studied discretion and neutrality as well – I give fake phone numbers as a reflex when completing online registrations, never advertise my plans in advance or give away my location or opinions on social media, and never volunteer information to strangers. I occasionally visit Facebook, but only to review my privacy settings. I give fake names in Starbucks. The one time I went to a professional football match, I sat in the middle stands and if pressed during half-time would have volunteered that both sides had aquitted themselves well and that it remained anyone’s to play for. I provoke less of a reaction than water to litmus paper. I am the middle box on customer satisfaction surveys transposed into human form.

Can I change? Might I one day get into a fierce argument, express outrage, contempt, behave recklessly, swear freely, dance wildly, or indulge in casual gossip and rumour-mongering? Might I participate enthusiastically in local politics, or be able to travel on a train without wanting to check everyone’s tickets and keep them informed about any delays. Might I, in short, play the role of an ordinary human being going about his life, rather than feeling that to be present somewhere without an official role is barely to be there at all? I fear not. Don’t misunderstand me, all these traits are borne out of habit and instinct, rather than out of any sense of superiority or meglomania. I have to be in charge of things because I don’t know how not to be, and I have to be neutral and discreet on most subjects because it genuinely reflects my views. I suppose I should count myself lucky to have been born in the UK, rather than a country where my slavish underpinning of bureaucratic ideals might have taken me down more sinister roads.

But you know what? The world needs me and my kind. For while you are busy being you, we are busy not being us. We are duty, self-sacrifice, modesty, efficiency – bravely foregoing our right to have a personality of our own for the greater good. In a world where we are encouraged to be nothing more than ourselves, and to share all of ourselves all of the time, we need a band of faceless, wan administrators to provide a sensible counterweight to the mass of extrovert showboating which surrounds us. We are the neutral background against which your kookiness can be manifest. You won’t even notice us, but we are here, clearing up, overseeing, mediating and imposing order – the cricket scorers, community support officers, volunteer stewards, traffic monitors, school governors, treasurers, ticket-inspectors – The Sensible Ones.

To Know The Place For the First Time

Delivery yard behind Two Rivers shopping centre, Staines, UK, as seen from the place I was quarantining on return to the UK

Now, you might look at this photo and remark on the singular, squat ugliness of the scene.  The lack of windows, the slate-grey expanse of roof, the dull concrete floor.  The bins.

Let me explain what I see:

The buildings are modern and solidly constructed, with multi-tone brick rather than unreinforced concrete or improvised corrugated iron or unfinished brick.  The tiles on the roof are safely secured, posing little danger to those walking underneath in the event of an earthquake (not that we have earthquakes in the UK). The roof is complete with an in-built gutter system to collect rainwater and avoid it flooding the ground below, and there are copious emergency exits and fire-escape stairs, all of which are in good repair.

At ground level is a loading bay, also used as a smoking area for staff (who are not permitted to smoke inside the building).  Entry to the area is controlled by a barrier, permitting only an appropriate number of vehicles to enter – all of which must park in the clearly-marked bays, out of the way of the larger lorries.  When they appear, the lorries are clean, modern, and in good repair, with tread remaining on the tyres and no visible smell or smoke from the exhaust.  They turn their engines off whenever not moving and load and unload their goods efficiently and with no evidence of bribes changing hands between the delivery drivers and those taking receipt of the goods.   Horns are not used and the system for lorries arriving and leaving the yard is well organised and timed to avoid congestion. 

Around the edge of the yard are some bins, but they all have coverings, there is no smell, and they are emptied at least weekly.  Recycling and rubbish are separated and very little waste is left lying around elsewhere.  Stray items (pallets, cardboard boxes, crates) are stored in designated areas.  There is no evidence of rats, mice or other vermin.  At night the yard is well lit and quiet.  Bottles of gas or other combustibles are inside a locked cage.

The July weather is refreshingly cool and breezy, with frequently changing cloud patterns and regular showers, which wash clean the concrete below and keep the decking on my balcony free of dust.  Despite it being high summer, the temperature is pleasant, meaning that air conditioning is not necessary in my flat.  The sun sets as late as 9 or 10 pm at this time of year. Often there are pleasant sunsets. Despite being very close to one of the busiest airports in the world, there is little noise or disruption from the airport.

Inside, my accommodation is compact but comfortable.  Windows are well insulated and double glazed, excluding most noise.  There are no insects or spiders anywhere to be seen.  The water from the cold tap is safe to drink or to brush teeth with.  Toilet paper can be flushed away rather than having to be put in a small bin nearby, and there is no smell of sewage in any part of the accommodation.   The rooms are clean and comes fully equipped with smoke and carbon monoxide detectors, free and reliable high speed WiFi, and a marked fire exit.  It is centrally heated with radiators for use in the cooler months.  On TV there is a (free) selection of high quality programming, including cultural and educational content and reliable news sources, and numerous free digital and FM radio stations.  Access to the internet is unrestricted.  To date there have not been any power cuts.  The process of booking and paying for my apartment could be completed online – with no need to withdraw large amounts of cash to hand over to the owner on arrival, nor to visit a bank to make the necessary transfer. There are no additional or hidden costs for taxes or cleaning. Minor problems with the flat were swiftly resolved via email within 24 hours.  There is no excess noise at night and the area has not been affected by looting or civil unrest during my stay.

It’s been a while since I lived in the UK.  It’s good to be home, and I won’t take these things for granted again.

On London

I lived in London for eight years but never felt in the least bit at home there.

On visits during my childhood,  it was a place of almost uncontrollable excitement.  Somewhere you long looked forward to going, got up early for (dragged out of bed by mum and fed cold toast wrapped in tin foil on the train).  Somewhere you had to hold someone’s hand at all times.  Somewhere you stood, unable to believe that you were looking at the actual Big Ben, the real Buckingham Palace.  Where there were more people than you’d ever seen – important people doing important things.  Where you went all day without sitting down and then flopped back into bed 18 hours later, your ears still ringing and your head throbbing.

It was like a theme park – there was never enough time to have a go on everything.  We could either go to the Tower of London or to the British Museum, but not both.  Harrods or Hamleys?  See the river or walk down Oxford Street?  It wasn’t a place you could ever stand still, or stop and think about anything, or remember any of your cares.  You could only exist in the moment, trying in vain to take everything in.  Nothing was connected – it existed as a series of scenes from a postcard, somehow connected by the Wonderful Underground Railway, but not in a way which was possible to understand.

London was a place where things happened.  A source of strange comfort on rainy Tuesday afternoons that however boring things were in East Yorkshire, something was bound to be going on in London.

At university, I again became the London day-tripper, catching coaches occasionally to glide through mumsy Notting Hill via an unaccountably depressing Hillingdon.  London retained all its metropolitan bustle but somehow became less overwhelming.  It was still exciting to go there for the day but it felt like a bigger version of Leeds or Manchester.  Some of its London-ness had worn off.  I stopped getting headaches.

And as we finished university, London became a badge of honour – it was where you went if you had a job.  You could talk nonchalantly about renting in Clapham or Kennington, trying to sound as though you had the least idea about where such places were, while quietly worrying about being stabbed or having to live in some sort of fetid, maggot ridden hovel – which is what most houses in London seemed to look like from the outside.   Finding a house, the gritty, uncomfortable process of lifting London’s skirts aloft and inspecting what lay underneath, represented the first stage of formally becoming a Londoner.  Oh the thrill, the excitement of giving my SW2 postcode!

But, the  novelty soon dissipated.  Having drawn me in, London saw fit to show me its unappealing side, like a lousy partner shortly after the wedding.  Oh, so you have very expensive habits?  And you smell of wee in unforeseen places?  And large parts of you aren’t safe to be explored at night?  I see.  You’re not the London I thought you were.

I became conscious that  huge numbers of people wanted to be there, but couldn’t understand why.   Oxford Street was a curious example of this.  Far too many people, pushing to get into slightly larger branches of the same shops which can be found in any British city.  Queuing for ages to buy a sandwich which looks remarkably like one sold in Sheffield, but for some reason costs £2 more.  Spending an hour on tubes and buses travelling what later turns out to be easy walking distance.  London’s appeal, once so obvious, now retreats into places where one hardly ever goes – to the museums, the tourist attractions, the London which you only see as a visitor rather than a resident.   Any sense of wonder becomes reliant on the presumed exoticism of the unknown – the light behind the curtain.  Plenty of unknown still left of course, but the same kinds of unknown.

And then, London took me back to my childhood briefly, when I spent a year doing a weekly commute by plane, getting a taxi to Heathrow at 5am each Monday morning from Brixton.  We are all children at that time of the morning.   No cold toast this time, but the same, weary sense of wonder and distraction.  Whisked, too fast, down Brixton Hill and down the surprisingly-busy-at-that-time high street, populated mainly by stop-out drinkers and the people clearing up after them.  A case study in the inequalities of society.   Towards Stockwell, passing with reassuring speed past looming blocks of flats, rising from an indeterminate point out of the ground and curtained away out of sight, apart from a single light here and there.  Some poor lady getting up early for a cleaning job on the other side of the river, perhaps.  Whizzing past hooded figures crouching in doorways or disappearing down alleyways, always turning their backs to our approaching lights.  Through Vauxhall past a club where people were still queuing up to get in at 0600 on a Monday morning, doggedly pursuing what was presumably a powerfully sick beat.

Across the river, misty like a meadow, then through Chelsea – all tall houses with a lamp left on downstairs showing a flash of fine art here, a mezzanine floor there.  I wondered who lived there as my head knocked dozily against the window of the taxi.  Important people doing important things, no doubt.  The streets were empty here, still slumbering apart from the occasional super-keen jogger padding silently along the river, puffing out steam and dazzling in their reflective lycra.  Then into Fulham and down narrow, one way streets with cars packed into the spaces at either side as tightly as new shoes.   Faded, Georgian frontage, cracked and coated in grey dust and pigeon feathers, converted within an inch of their lives – from their darkened basement flats with sticking plaster holding the door-bell together, to their soaring loft conversions with pot plants drooling over tiny balconies.  Onto the A4, past shabbier houses, still with porches, teetering steeply onto narrow pavements.  Who would choose to live on so busy a road?  Past the Three Famous Kings pub, the headlights of passing cars manipulating ghostly silhouettes of stools up on the tables.  Never anyone inside the downstairs but always a light on the first floor. Landlord gets up early.

Then onto the Hammersmith Flyover – perhaps the part of the UK which feels most like America – as though created to make Texans arriving at Heathrow feel more at home.  The road rears up like a rollercoaster and rises proudly past old factories, car showrooms and huge advertising hoardings promising faster broadband.  Someone was always working in the SEGA building.  For some reason this amused me – I thought of some poor developer whose boss had shouted at him the previous night “You WILL come up with 3 more moves for Sonic by tomorrow morning”.

The scene changed again when I began working in London full-time.  The London of my late 20s was characterised by night-buses, ever reliable steeds which trundled us ponderously, but reliably, to within yards of our homes from almost anywhere.  The N87 was my usual transport – all the way from Whitehall  (I instinctively seemed to end up there somehow at the end of every drunken night out, like a homing device), to Wimbledon.  With what tender care we wended our way through Battersea and Clapham, along a mysterious and lengthy route, clutching a MacDonalds I didn’t really need, chatting to friends in a too-loud voice if I was with them, or else reading a rolled up copy of Private Eye while listening to music too loud if not.  Late night London is always better with music; DJ Shadow, Leftfield, Crystal Castles.  All around me are couples or groups, swinging around on the straps and almost falling over whenever the bus drove into steep corners.  The noise is like a nightclub, except the lights are too bright, revealing stained teeth, puckered skin, dandruff.  On the opposite side of the bus is a young man reading a Paul Theyroux paperback very seriously, and in front of him a petite, pretty young woman who looks as though she has been crying.  I feel sorry for her as she dismounts and disappears up a dark street in Battersea.  Hope she has a better night next time.

“Look – it’s green! And it’s in a city! Well look at us having it all”, the smug faces of joggers in Battersea Park seemed to say, as they pause to take a picture of a brown horse-chestnut leaf which will subsequently be tagged ‘Isn’t Battersea Awesome!!!’ on Facebook.

But whilst night-time London never lost its intrigue,  my queasiness about daytime London quickly resurfaced, often in unforeseen ways.  For instance, I never quite understood people’s raving about its parks.  “Look – it’s green! And it’s in a city! Well look at us having it all”, the smug faces of joggers in Battersea Park seemed to say, as they pause to take a picture of a brown horse-chestnut leaf which will subsequently be tagged ‘Isn’t Battersea Awesome!!!’ on Facebook.  I wanted to stop them and say – “excuse me, but you’re not under the impression that this is somehow ‘the countryside’ are you?”  Granted, grass is definitely better than no-grass – and I appreciate that not all cities are endowed with so much open space as London,  but for me there’s a limit to how far you can feel like you’re wallowing in rural bliss when you can read the logos on the planes flying into Heathrow, and at any given time mentally triangulate the locations of at least three sirens coming from various directions.  Indeed it’s frustrating to have some of the teasing indicators of countryside, in the form of trees, lakes and butterflies, so starkly removed from their accompanying forests, waterfalls and meadows.  I’d love to move Battersea Park to North Yorkshire and see if anyone ever came.  Bet they bloody wouldn’t.

And, worse, London seemed during that period to be inhabited by a series of social-stereotypes, none of which I could squeeze myself into.  There was the London of Brixton market and Shoreditch high-street; edgy, cool, buzzing – always overflowing from too-noisy, stuffed bars into the street with a late night belch of some subversively named craft beer, ‘Streaker’; ‘Nun’s Nipple’, etc.   Then there was the London of Herne Hill, Clapham North, Dulwich; redolent with £1000 prams and shops selling organic hemp-wheat quinoa crackers to women called Tiffany who worked as account managers in ad agencies and did bikram yoga.  Then there were the really posh areas – Belgravia, South Kensington, Sloane Square, where as far as I could tell, you weren’t even allowed in most of the shops without proof of earnings.   The problem with trying to locate yourself among the inhabitants of these areas is that none of them exists in most cities, and certainly not in the northern towns of my childhood.

As such, I found it very hard to feel at home in a London which was either looming council estates, daring you to wander into their labyrinthine insides, so complex they have their own little map by the entrance, or vast town-houses with Bentleys hunched outside.  Where are all the people in between?  Where are all the people like me?  Where are the Ford Mondeos?

The last phase of my London life was in Pimlico with my fiancée – our first home together.  A better London experience overall, not least because Pimlico is actually in London, rather than being a town several miles away which happens to have enough rows of terraced houses connecting it to London to make it  – technically – a part of the same city.   In Pimlico you can walk everywhere, and at weekends it takes on a glorious solitude, free from the bustle of neighbouring Victoria and Vauxhall.  Pimlico is verdant, resplendent in Georgian townhouses, effortlessly plush and yet also somehow concealed and understated – our friends never quite knew how to get there or where it was.  Its confusing grid of not-quite-parallel streets makes navigation a challenge.

Our neighbours were eccentric in various ways.  The woman who had the first floor flat next to ours never spoke to us, other than once when there were fire-engines at the front in the middle of the night, and we both came out to see what was going on.  “It’s your building”  she said, accusingly.  I thought this an odd thing to say in a long row of terraced Georgian houses.  “These houses go up in about 3 minutes you know” she said, dramatically.  “mmm, I know”, I replied, absently.   “Oh you know that do you?” she countered, aggressively, disappearing inside again.  I tended to avoid her after that.  She was sometimes to be heard shouting advice to rowing couples on the road outside, late at night.  “Don’t react!” she screamed once, to a woman shooing a rejected lover away from her doorway.

The house on the other side was even more interesting.  In the basement lived a very thin young man who I only ever saw going to and from the corner shop.  He always looked as though it was the first time he had seen daylight in weeks, and walked with a head-down, purposeful gait, always close to the inside of the pavement .  Once, I happened to be walking  closer to the inside of the pavement than he was, and he paused as we approached each other and made hand gestures to indicate that I should move outwards.  As we were packing up the car for the last time to leave the house, he stood next to me and cackled loudly for about 10 seconds.

 He had the air of an insurance salesman down on his luck.  Really down on it, like after some natural disaster, the insurance against which had formed the mainstay of his career.

But it was the other floors of the house next door which really intrigued me.  The ground floor flat always seemed to be occupied, with a filthy net curtain which fluttered thanks to a tiny gap always left at the bottom of the sash window. Inside was what looked like an old-fashioned standard lamp, creating the faintest of orange glows by night.  Mr Normal from the basement was occasionally to be seen entering or leaving, sometimes accompanied by a man who somehow managed to look exactly as though he had stepped out of a betting shop in the 1970s.  Overweight and perpetually glistening, he wore a ragged old grey suit, always had a fag hanging out of his mouth, and walked in a lop-sided, pained way.  He had the air of an insurance salesman down on his luck.  Really down on it, like after some natural disaster, the insurance against which had formed the mainstay of his career.

I assumed that the house was some sort of squat or drug den.  I pictured fatty and Mr Normal weighing out huge blocks of cannabis inside, or making crystal meth in their kitchen wearing only their underwear.  There were other strange comings and goings – women who looked like nurses or cleaners, others who appeared more like prostitutes.  Several deliveries were made to the house each day – including what looked like a meals- on -wheels service.  I never saw anyone else coming in or out, making me wonder whether the house had not been fully converted into flats in the way that all the others in the street had.  Perhaps Fatty and Normal had the run of a huge Georgian mansion, collapsing on chaise-longes in their drug addled confusion.  Who owned it?  Had one of them inherited the place from a relative and now chose to use it in this way, smoking away the family fortune?  Were they there legally?  Who keeps a house in super-prime London in such a lousy condition, when it could be rented or sold on for millions?  Certainly nobody had painted it or cleaned the windows for a Very Long Time.

But for all its peculiar charm, Pimlico’s captivation was only temporary.  The part where we lived was more starkly divided between rich and poor than anywhere I have ever lived.  The Bentleys were literally across the road from the entrance to Churchill Gardens – one of those estates with a map outside.  One Sunday evening, a minute’s walk from our flat, a teenager was brutally stabbed to death as he ran out of the estate while trying to escape his killers,  bleeding to death beneath the hanging baskets and scrubbed limestone of the houses on the other side of the road.   The juxtaposition of his world and the world to which he had tried to escape somehow seemed so raw, so obscene, that I could never quite see Pimlico in the same way afterwards.

We left London just before my wife gave birth – escaping, like so many before us, to the area just outside London’s ever-expanding mushroom cloud of rising house prices.  Our tiny, rented, one -bedroom flat in Pimlico had increased in value during our 3 year tenancy from around £350k to £650k.

You will never be bored in London – there are simply too many variables, too many crazy people, too much money, too many comings and goings and gangs and criminals and saints and sinners and beggars and millionaires.   You don’t get that in Milton Keynes.

And so I am no longer a Londoner.  But while profoundly alienating, this absurd, endlessly interesting city developed a hold over me, and I kicked myself for not realising why.   London doesn’t necessarily offer happiness or belongership, but it does offer interest and unpredictability, which can sometimes amount to the same thing.  Famously, you will never be bored in London – there are simply too many variables, too many crazy people, too much money, too many comings and goings and gangs and criminals and saints and sinners and beggars and millionaires.   You don’t get that in Milton Keynes.  Which is why, despite everything, you end up coming back there.    I would never live there anymore – you would have to be crazy to try and make a life there with a modest income and two kids – but I will always be a keen visitor.

And now, living overseas, I feel it more than ever.  It remains distinctly enticing and unknowable – you will never know London as you know a small town or even a small city; your brain will never fully de-mythologise it into a collection of buildings and people – it remains inscrutable, changing shape, quietly upgrading and rebuilding itself.  It retains just enough familiarity to comfort you as you step off a plane from Dubai or Ankara, but also keeps you at arm’s length.   And talking to people overseas, you realise that on rainy days, they too are confident that something exciting is happening in London.