Lockdown London: A tale of two cities
On Sunday evening, a friend and I had a game of tennis in a small unremarkable suburban local park.
Surrounded by terraced houses, it is the kind of park of which there are 3,000 dotted across the capital. Too hilly for a game of football but with a couple of rarely used tennis courts for which I feel lucky to have as an underutilised resource.
This time last year it would have had maybe one couple in it and perhaps a solitary dog walker.
The scene that greeted us on Sunday was one that anyone living in the suburbs of London over the past few months will now be familiar. Hundreds of people sitting around, socialising and playing games. An industrious entrepreneur had set up a pizza van outside one entrance with a queue snaking down the street. The local off-licence was doing a roaring trade.
The bushes were being well watered despite the lack of nimbus clouds in the sky. A man had set up with an amplified guitar to play us all a live gig. More Latitude than Love Box, but a festival atmosphere nonetheless.
When we finished our game we squeezed through to find our own scrap of grass to sit on and soak up the atmosphere.
Not one person in the park wore a mask. There was no room to sit a full two metres apart in groups so this rule was ignored. People passed around crisps, beers and olives.
I have no problem with any of the above. People were generally being respectful and sitting as far apart from other groups as they could which is what they do in normal circumstances out of general courtesy. And we were all outdoors after all. Hundreds of little infringements of the official rules were taking place without any of the rules of common sense being ignored.
The absurdity comes in the juxtaposition to my experience of going into my office in Aldgate East the next morning.
Myself and perhaps three other commuters stood on an empty train outdoor platform wearing our masks during Monday morning rush hour. Signs screamed at us to keep our masks on “AT ALL TIMES”.
It was a small price to pay. On getting on the train I practically had the entire carriage to myself.
At Cannon Street I was met by a welcoming committee of perhaps 30 rail staff wearing visors ready to help people social distance. But with just me and a few other fellow commuters having braved the journey, I was forced to give them an apologetic look and walked alone across the station concourse to get the District Line. On the Tube, carriages were half empty.
Keen to support London’s struggling businesses, I have tried to arrange as many physical meetings as I can over the next few weeks with clients in restaurants and bars in Soho, Westminster and the surrounding areas. But without other people central London does not hold the same appeal.
I live in the kind of area that people might have once sneeringly called a dormitory. Fine to sleep there but when you want to have fun you go elsewhere. Despite being born in London I still get excited about the prospect of going “up town” of an evening. It’s something to get dressed up for. “Out Out” as the comedian Mickey Flanagan would say.
I like living somewhere relatively boring that I don’t get woken up too often at night. While I am happy to patronise the local establishments there is nothing to beat going into central London and getting the buzz of human life and activity. Londoners live in the donut, but they work and play in the centre.
Back in the suburban park, I tell my friend I am having some work drinks on Friday in Soho and would he like to join after?
“No chance,” he tells me. “Come back here after your work drinks instead. Central London is dead at the moment. This is where it’s at.”
Main image credit: Getty