LONDON BELONGS TO ME PART 2
A FAREWELL TO ARMS - AND LEGS
This is an abridged version of a much longer memoir
on which I am currently working
I.
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| Sunrise on Parliament Hill |
The first green space in London I encountered, and arguably
the best, is Hampstead Heath. Situated in the north of the city, and only
slightly smaller than Central Park in New York, it encompasses Parliament Hill.
From here you can survey Central London arrayed below you.
Wandering around the Heath can provide the illusion of
being in the countryside, whilst actually walking in central London. It was the
first place in which I began to develop the distinct feeling that London
belonged to me.
When I was writing a dystopian novel, 2024, I felt compelled
to draw a scene on Hampstead Heath.
‘The new breed of
camera was even smaller, all had infra-red and speech recognition capability
and were incredibly difficult to detect. Don was acutely aware of this when he
suggested Hampstead Heath as the meeting point. Dusk was always best, twilight
was the period the cameras most struggled to cope. However even on the Heath
you couldn’t be completely sure of safety. There was also the ever present sky
drones that flew low over the city with their apparently insatiable curiosity.’
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| Hampstead Heath |
I can testify that it is possible to get lost on Hampstead
Heath. Shortly after arriving in London in 1983, with a young woman, whom, like
me was a Community Service Volunteer. As we tried to find our bearings the
heavens opened and we were both soaked to the skin. As her flimsy dress then
turned see through, and Judith was a very pretty girl, I very gallantly offered
her my jacket, as we both, dripping wet, managed to find our way back to Swiss
cottage.
My early period in London is intertwined with Hampstead
Heath, Swiss Cottage and Camden. I arrived in London in a sense a refugee. London
draws refugees both literal, and metaphorical, a refuge promising anonymity;
you can remake yourself in London. London neither embraces nor rejects, it
simply accepts.
I was twenty seven, arriving in Swiss Cottage to do
voluntary work, from the wreckage of a failed attempt to be young.[1]
Whatever my letter from Community service Volunteers had
stipulated, in reality no one was expecting me. So I sat amidst the concrete of
the modernist flats of the Alexandra Road Estate Boundary Road NW8, killing time until they found out
what to do with me. The sun teased from between the clouds, and I watched the
children play. Close by the trains slowed down on the nearby tracks as they
approached, as I had just done, London Euston.
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| Alexandra Road Estate Swiss Cottage |
The idea of working with physically disabled people, given
the patent disorder of my own life, was a bizarre one, though as I was
introduced to my fellow volunteers it quickly became apparent that I was not
the only one fleeing south. In short we were all a bunch of misfits, on the run
from something or other.
II.
To the east of Hampstead Heath lies Highgate cemetery, most
famously the sight of the grave of Karl Marx. It bears the legend, ‘Workers of
All Lands Unite.’ Never a communist, - I was closer to Bakunin, who, although by far the
intellectually weaker of the two, understood the authoritarian nature of
Marxism. I still wanted to make a pilgrimage to the much maligned and
misunderstood old man. So I stood, rather like Morgan in the film ‘A Suitable
Case for Treatment’ gazing up at the bearded old philosopher.
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| Morgan A Suitable Case For Treatment |
Two attempts have been made to blow up the monument erected
to the memory of Marx, in 1965 and 1970, both happily botched. I doubt now that
anyone would be so agitated as to bother trying to unseat the old man. The
Islamists prefer to blow up real people rather that statues.
A good portion of Charles Dickens’s family, his parents,
brother and wife are all interned in Highgate, in addition to a whole range of
other notables, including Christina Rossetti and George Eliot.
It is now over twenty five years since I was last in the
cemetery and apparently it is no longer possible to wander around
unaccompanied. My memory of the cemetery is of it feeling wild, overgrown and
strangely silent. It is in fact a nature reserve. If I want to commune with the
dead now I travel to Brompton Cemetery which is both closer and more
accessible.
III
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| The famous Swiss Cottage After which the area is named |
The summer of 1983 I spent pushing wheelchairs along the
Finchley High Road, being the arms, legs and sometimes voice of people with
very severe physical disabilities. The
idea was to give maximum freedom to people with such disabilities; the idea was
good, well intentioned and idealistic. The reality often descended into the
bizarre and surreal. I well remember a discussion around one of the residents
wanting to take a job at McDonalds. This would have involved the [unpaid]
volunteer getting up sufficiently early to get the resident washed and dressed
before taking him to McDonalds, then putting in a full shift serving Big Macs
and fries, before returning home to wash, undress and put the resident to bed,
if this were his wish, - he might have fancied watching a little late night TV,
stimulated by his interacting with the customers at Ronnie Mac’s place. The
idea was eventually vetoed. I can’t think why.
We also used to amuse ourselves contemplating the prospect
of one of the residents taking up hang gliding.
I was originally selected to work at Boundary Road strangely
enough because of my politics. Politically active in the Labour Party and
familiar with the broad spectrum of left opinion it was felt a good idea to
place me with Ron,[2]
a man with cerebral palsy who was also a leading light in the European Nuclear
Disarmament movement. At that time I was a member of CND. It was thought we
would get on. Aha, such naiveté from well-meaning folk who do not understand
the bitter, twisted and factionalised world of the far left. We were as chalk
and cheese, we couldn’t have been more unalike in temperament and character if
our incompatibility had been planned. Ron despised my membership of the Labour
Party and derided my ‘bourgeoisie reformism.’
Ron spoke with a pointer attached to his forehead and which
he directed at a black letter board, allowing you to speak the words forming in
John’s head. With practice you could learn to translate quickly, as Ron’s
pointer skipped across the board. However it did not help our relationship that
I was one of the slower readers and I often found myself voicing criticisms of
my skill in this area along with my politics, I was ‘a hack.’
Whilst I was soon transferred from Ron, my days at Boundary
Road were soon coming to an end. For obvious reasons volunteers were rapidly
recycled, with stints limited to four months.
IV
My memories of Boundary Road are dominated by the
recollection of intense conversations drinking copious amounts of tea in the
communal kitchen with Diane, a sister in arms, -indeed in arms and legs,-
reflecting on the wider absurdities of our lives. We both stayed in London.[3]This
was the beginning of a relationship between us[4],
and for both of us to a relationship with London itself.
[1]
The average age of placements at Boundary Road was much higher than for other
schemes, though I was one of the oldest.
[2]
Not his real name.
[3]
I think most volunteers did. Whilst a few returned from whence they came, the
majority having escaped from whatever it was they were escaping from had no
desire to return.
[4]
Though our romantic relationship ended a long time ago, Di and I have stayed friends and confidants to this
day
