Capitalism

On Wednesday, I had to go down to London for a meeting.

On the train home, I pondered bloggish thoughts.

I love London. I do. I’ve never lived there, but every time I visit…its energy just kind of fills me, makes me feel all buzzy. I love its vibrancy and its modern melting-pot nature, and I love its staidness and its still-Dickensian-if-you-find-the-right-corners feel. I love the names, the names I knew before ever I visited the place: Chancery Lane, The Strand, High Holborn, Mornington Crescent – names that in one way or another have entered my brain and gained associated poetry over the years. Most of all, I think, I love its sense of purpose. Most cities feel like they just kind of happened…like they only really serve a purpose as a focal point. London feels like a capital. Like every street, every building, every worker in it has a purpose.

And yet…and yet. Could I live there? I doubt it. I couldn’t work in the high-profile stuff that makes it feel so unique – a high-pressure environment is exciting, but I don’t have the mental strength to survive it for long. And if I was just living out on the fringes, doing average stuff…I’d rather do that elsewhere. Somewhere where you’re not locked in by the M25, somewhere where there are still fields and mud when you need them. Where you can tell it’s a stormy day by more than the fact that a building-top flag is waving.

But there is still the magic, still the pull. I would still prefer to go to London for a day than any other British city. There’s a fantastic feeling that for millennia, people have been there – and their traces are still there, inherent in every odd twist of an alleyway. And that it is still developing, still not done…Britain as a whole is definitely an ex-power but London doesn’t feel like one at all. Even on a wet, windy Wednesday in March.

Strange, how one can love something and yet feel entirely unsuited to be a part of it.