Perthect, But Not London

As time ticks by in Perth I find myself increasingly reflective of my eight years in London. I no longer miss it the way I did when I was jobless upon arrival in Australia, but it is starting to occur to me just how important a period of my life it was. To have spent nearly a decade in arguably the world’s greatest city is to have exposed yourself to a smorgasbord of humanity, cultural diversity and history. If London is quite simply an exotic buffet of life, with titbits from all corners of the globe served splendidly on a platter of ancient history, tradition and modernity, then Perth, I am sorry to say, is more like a paltry selection of salads and sauces you might find in a Subway.

This is, I’ll admit, a harsh way to surmise my new and delightful home, but it is less through Perth’s failings, which are limited to be fair, and more through London’s infinite successes that I feel compelled to draw such a conclusion. In short, nothing compares to London, and nothing should try and compare to London. Perth has its place in this world. It is a demonstration of logical town planning, harmonious living, and an appreciation for the outdoors. It doesn’t pretend to be one of the world’s greatest cities, but it may lay claim to host the world’s greatest lifestyle. London is the complete opposite. In exchange for life immersed in such social splendour, you sacrifice the simple things; a tan, a trim waistline, and an unblocked nose, to name a few. The more I think about London the more I realise it is a city of complete contrasts. Perth is full of benign functionality and happy, smiley people, proud of their ability to do what they want with their days while the city exists in predictable fashion behind them. London, however, is bittersweet in every way; full of contrasts and quirks.

I think one of the greatest pleasures in Britain’s capital – and many may disagree – is the seemingly unwavering availability of black cabs wherever you go. It can be pouring with rain and you can be fiddling clumsily with one of those hopelessly inadequate collapsible umbrellas, designed to fit perfectly in a bag or briefcase but to collapse in a crumpled heap at the slightest sign of precipitation, and lo and behold out of the gloom comes that heart-warming sound of the diesel engine, the hiss of tyres spraying through the puddles, the welcoming orange glow of the vacant light atop the roof – you’re saved. You clamber in, soaked, and desperately gasp your destination to the driver. Off he chugs as you snuggle back into the warm, oddly-scented upholstery. But not long after you pull away from the pavement you grind to a shuddering halt in what appears, through the rain-splattered window, to be a jumbled and blinding mass of traffic lights, indicators, pedestrians, glowing shopfronts, huge red Les Misérables-clad buses, and camera flashes. Is it Piccadilly Circus? Leicester Square? No, Knightsbridge? It could be anywhere. The meter ticks over, and over ... in Pounds Sterling ... and you resign yourself to the fact that you’re dry, albeit stationary. What is the alternative? Get wet and mobile? At least you have a genuine Londoner to keep you company. The driver looks up into the mirror, complete with a miniature Chelsea FC football shirt hanging from it, and starts up a conversation. It doesn’t take you long to realise that the driver is full of a wealth of London knowledge. It’s almost worth getting in a cab in London just for the insight. Unlike many other major cities in the world London’s cab drivers are almost all Londoners; locals with an infinite awareness of the city pulsing around them. You may not be going anywhere but at least you feel like the meter rolling over mercilessly is a fee in some way for the brilliant tour guide.

The sweet and sour side of London doesn’t end there. Not to go on about the transport on offer, but let me reveal to you one of the greatest ways to get around: your feet. It took me almost my entire time in London to realise I could save a fortune, get a little fitter, and see much more of the city if I just used my head – and used my feet. For a long time I commuted between Wimbledon (Zone 3) and Central London (Zone 1). A Travelcard to cover all these zones, enabling you to use all forms of transport within the zone boundaries, used to set me back £110 per month. I would leave my house at 7.00, and arrive at my desk at 8.05 – on a good day, mind you. Quite often the Tube would be delayed, or would stop short of its destination, or worse would be one of those nasty “terminating at Kennington” hell rides. The latter would mean having to squeeze onto the next one, along with the rest of South London’s population. Crammed tubes are all too familiar in London, and nobody seems to care. For over £100 pounds a month I was immersing myself into this murky, dusty, crowded and hot underworld just to get from A to B. What a rip-off! For £80 a month I could catch the train from Wimbledon to Waterloo and walk the rest of the way to Mornington Crescent. Yes, it took a little longer and I got a little wetter, but what a view across the river! And that money saved helped see me through the months of joblessness here in Perth. London’s Tube is, after all is said and done, a great and relatively efficient service ferrying millions back and forth through a network of complex underground tunnels. So, in true London fashion, you have two options. You can pay to sit back, breathing in the human filth around you, while reading Harry Potter (with the book sleeve removed) waiting for the Tube to deliver you unscathed, and usually in a timely manner, to your destination. Alternatively, you can brave the fluctuations in weather and do what Londoners of old would have had to do: walk. Trust me, it’s the best way to see the city, and you save a buck.

Sights and sounds on the Northern Line between South Wimbledon and Mornington Crescent:
- The greasy patch on the window, where filthy-haired commuters have dozed off
- An influx of high-heeled, Blackberry-wielding blondes at any of the Clapham stops (there’s no signal down here, dahlings)
- The vocal platform supervisor at Stockwell and her curious ability to shepherd the throng of miserable Londoners from the Northern Line to the Victoria Line
- The wily mice at Mornington Crescent, if the platform is quiet enough, flitting from track to platform in search of crumbs (or possibly the way out?)

Sights and sounds on the route from South Wimbledon to Mornington Crescent by train and foot:
- The Old Wimbledon Theatre
- Clapham Junction, Britain’s busiest railway station
- The famous Waterloo Station
- The London Eye
- Big Ben
- Trafalgar Square
- Neal’s Yard
- The Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts
- Gordon’s Wine Bar

Walking London reveals its true nature. You can turn down one street, resplendent with bright white Victorian mansions facing an intricate, ornamental, private central garden, walk a few hundred yards and emerge onto a council estate. Don’t get me wrong, council estates have their place in London’s architectural heritage, I’m merely highlighting the contrasts that make London what it is. You can walk a few hundred metres from the tourist hub of Piccadilly Circus, duck into a side alley near Mayfair and Park Lane, and find a truly local and high-quality pub. Then again you can do that in almost any part of London.

It is truly a city for all people. You can spend a week learning what it is to be a Londoner, with no concept at the end of your stay of what it is to be English. Yet if you hopped on a train at Victoria and journeyed south for an hour, you’d be immersed in the quintessentially English countryside of Kent, or Sussex. You can pay £10 for a cocktail, while watching Cuba’s latest musical import, or you can walk a few extra yards for a two quid pint, and a glimpse of a three-piece grunge band from Bristol. You can fight your way down Oxford Street in an attempt to get from one end to the other, or you can take a parallel route behind the shopfronts on an almost deserted street – just don’t be surprised to find the back of a Tesco for once.

I’ve lost my way with this blog. That’s the Londoner in me. I started out trying to get to a point and drifted off along an unpredictable route. Forgive me. Perhaps in five years time, when Perth has bronzed me but dulled my senses, I’ll manage to write a simple, succinct piece about how the sun always shines here and how the pak choy comes nicely packaged in threes with a rubber band around the stems. I never saw pak choy at Borough Market, but I did once see the Lord Mayor of London, in all his bib and tucker, viewing the rows and rows of winners from England’s recent apple growing championships. It was a splendid sight. I’m off for a run down the beachfront, I’m getting depressed.

Chin Up

My father would scoff and refer to me as still being wet behind the ears if he knew I was lodging the following complaint: I am getting old. I know I am only thirty-one (my thirty-second birthday feels like it is racing up from the murky depths of its December lair like a toilet blockage travelling the wrong way) but something sobering dawned on me the other day, as I caught myself staring disapprovingly at a teenager’s garish pair of Nike trainers that had flopped down nonchalantly on the bus seat adjacent to mine – my life is now measurable in decades. Sure, you could look back through a nostalgic selection of childhood photos at your twenty-first birthday and proudly consider your two decades of existence, but who really remembers having life unceremoniously spanked into them by a midwife? Who can honestly recall the joy of massaging mashed pumpkin and sweet potato with chubby fingers to a parent’s dismay? And who can deny that the continuous blur from age five through to fifteen is broken only by beacons of growing up such as your first stitch, bike, kiss, and precious pubic hair? My point is I can now recall two distinct decades of existence and am well into the third. The prime of my life some might say, but I beg to differ. And here’s why.

Firstly, when I shave I am no longer confronted by the challenge of having to navigate the razor around the sharp cliff edge of my chin down to my neck. This was always a problem area, normally resulting in a collection of nicks and cuts as the blade inevitably clashed with the knife-edge angle of my youthful jawbone. Now, I am pleased to say, the blade cruises languidly down my cheek and eases all the way down my neck without encountering disruption, and this is all due to the development of a substantial soft jowl otherwise known as my chin’s double.

Secondly, between the hours of about 10pm and 5am you will normally find me lying in a variety of different angles and positions twisting sheets and duvets into knots around my limbs and neck, searching for that elusive pleasure I once referred to in my youger days as sleep. In my teens it was something I would always look forward to as the day drew to a close, knowing that it would last through to early morning if it was a school day, or through to a time that suited me if it was a weekend. Now, however, it seems the only time I am able to muster up the need for sleep is when I am as far away from my bed as possible, in the middle of the day, in a situation where alertness is essential; commuting, reading, cinema, grocery shopping, haircut, you name it, I’ll sleep through it. I can snore my way through a hurricane, provided its arrives around lunchtime. I can often be found snoring my way through the cereal section in the supermarket, can you imagine how I shut down when I reach the cool of the meat fridges?

Thirdly, I have one word for you: Twitter. I am no expert in the tech world, let alone the social networking environment, but this is one concept that has floated straight over my head. On a serious note I believe Twitter is a major milestone in the virtual, computer, internet and technology age because it has split the population. It’s safe to say that the majority of people in the western world have a computer with internet, or have access to one, but what Twitter has done is drive a clear wedge between those who have 24-hour access, and those who don’t. Those who have, and indeed demand, eternal, mobile, fast, and comprehensive access to the internet are now in a world of their own, separated from those who use a computer once in a while for emails, news, photos and the odd YouTube clip. Where before the defining line was between those who could use a computer and those who couldn’t, it is now between those who connect when they need to and those to whom being connected is part of life. I have a computer with no internet access, and my mobile phone is about three years old. It’s not aged, but it’s not young and vibrant with all the features of the modern-day handsets. In a sense, it’s much like its owner; by no means past it, but by no means with it.

I hope that when the sun does eventually start setting on me in the future I will retain a similar sense of humour to the elderly gentleman I overheard on the train yesterday. He got chatting to a lady opposite him, who had a cowering four-year-old hiding behind her arm. He enquired how old the lad was and suggested that when he was that age himself he was still being breastfed; “If you’re onto a good thing, don’t give it up,” was his rationale.

I’m not sure the poor kangaroo I encountered on the golf course the other day was onto a good thing. I complained about the lack of kangaroos recently, only to come across huge herds of them relaxing on the fairways of Capel Golf Club. They were all going about their business nibbling shoots of grass, nuzzling joeys - all but two of them. I can only describe it as kangaroo rape. It was a horrific sight and not one my cousin and I were happy to see. A huge male had in his grasp a female with a joey in her pouch and was having his way in a most violent and assertive fashion. She was bleating and barking, prompting us to intervene, and when we did she scurried away for the safety of her herd. I’m sure it was nature taking its course and that we probably shouldn’t have disturbed them, but I honestly believe she was grateful. I wish I could blame the quality of my golf on this harrowing experience, but I can’t.

I have received complaints recently about the length of my blogs, so I will make a concerted effort to shorten them. Suits me. I need a snooze anyway.