Slowly Falling For the Big Smoke

Here at The London Word, my fear of and disappointment in the big city are well documented. It’s no secret that I’m scared of pretty much everything and everyone here and am disgusted by having my nose rammed into a stranger’s armpit. I hate London.

Or, at least, I did. Bit by bit, and about six years later than my friends, I’m falling for the Big Smoke.

‘I’m never going to live there. Yes, I know it’s where all the jobs are, but I’d do anything to avoid the place,’ said the 18-year-old me. ‘It smells weird and people don’t even look at each other when standing inches apart.’

But now? I love that I’ve gained skills in meandering (read: cutting) through crowds, and that down here, I can go into a shop without having to put a flashing ‘No small talk, please’ sign above my head. Oh, blissful, rude silence. Sure, it’s nice to be called ‘duck’ occasionally up north, but when I’ve just left work and all I want is a sandwich, not a conversation, the London way is excellent.

OK, so maybe the air is thick with dirt, but I still can’t help feeling a little joy and anticipation when it comes to cleaning my face. That layer of dirt is like a badge of honour; a dark grey facewipe tells me I’ve had a good day wandering around the streets of London and getting slightly lost on the Underground. But if that cotton-soft cloth leaves my cheek with only a hint of grime, then, lady, you have been tied to your desk too much.

The scary part is I feel how I always imagined real Londoners felt. I’ve developed a ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ face. I’ve started eating Starbucks for breakfast and then being horrified at the number of calories in a skinny muffin. Paying nearly a fiver for a cider no longer seems ridiculous, even though that would have bought me six litres of the stuff at university.

More than anything, it’s given me a strange kind of confidence that I’ve never before known. For the first time, I’m OK with being able to feel someone else’s genitals pressed against my lower back, even if I’m sober. Ponytail tickling my cleavage? No biggy. Not a clue where I am? If I keep walking I’ll find a tube station eventually.

I’ll admit it’s something my bank balance isn’t thanking me for, and the fear isn’t completely gone. I’m still looking over my shoulder, still balling my hands into fists when I’m walking around at night. But now, that has less to do with London folk, and more to do with the awful choice I made to read about a zombie-infested London while living alone here.

I’m now waking up (almost) every morning to the sun streaming through my window, setting me up nicely for some over enthusiastic train catching. Watch out, London, I’m on the loose.

Image by markhillary courtesy of Flickr