Bugger Me, Big Ben

Grabbed my Opal card and bolted out the door. First morning in London and off to Big Ben. The first thing I wanted to behold, and I did. Three minutes to twelve. From Westminster Bridge I gazed lovingly into his handsome face. I waited. Overcast and light drizzle not withstanding I stood and wept through twelve bongs!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yep, twelve wonderful, resonant, basso profundo bongs. Then again for one. And once more for two. How to explain watching a clock toll the hour in the rain.

Though I grew up in the country there was no pony for me. I had swap cards. The pride of my collection was Big Ben. Kids coveted it, but nothing could tempt me to swap it. Not even for a Taj Mahal and an Eiffel Tower. Over time it lost its gloss, got cracked and bent, became scratched and tattered, worn, torn, was sticky taped together and, eventually fell apart. Big Ben was retired from the pack and placed in a special tin, then hidden where all treasures are hidden – the back of the wardrobe. I have been holding that secret for oh well, let’s say quite a few years. That’s what Big Ben means to me. Today, a dream fulfilled.

A week later London continues to thrill. Every day, everywhere childish dreams are realised. It’s spring. Top temperature 16 degrees, lows of 5. The sun has been out five times, twice on the same day. I have taken to stealing paper napkins for unseemly and unsightly body dribblings brought on by pollen, soot, and chill winds. I love it here, the beauty and graciousness of architecture, the overbearing presence of history, preposterous cultural icons of religion and monarchy, both of which I detest, create a backdrop that is breathtaking in scope and folly. I feel at home. Finally, I recognise I have a culture and I align with it and, still another week to go.

Having mastered the rat running of the Underground tube system, I languish around Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, Shaftesbury Ave, Covent Garden. Oh, did I mention Pall Mall and Trafalgar Square? Them as well. After days of pounding the pavement it was time to get off the high road and enjoy the open green spaces. Fresh in from Brixton, my home base, Green Park is the tube exit of choice. Off via the dark blue Monopoly spaces of Mayfair and Park Lane, under Marble Arch and into Hyde Park. Today not a speaker in sight, teens doing rap about Brexit was informative. Yo!

Green Park, St James’s Park, Hyde Park, Kensington Gardens are the lungs of the city and Londoners flock to get out in wide open spaces and clean(er) air. It’s refreshing to see parks so loved. Australia, almost entirely uninhabited, wide-open spaces and bracingly fresh air are taken for granted. The fact we have the deadliest wild life species on the planet may be a contributing factor. And, no pubs out there.

Steeped in majesty, art, history, glory of the realm, and people like me, gawping and gasping at the obscenity of opulence, I sit for a breather by the Serpentine. The swamp between Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Well bugger me! White swans.

I remind you I grew up in the Aussie bush. A fresh water lake my front yard, where we had swans, glistening jet-black swans. A wedge of swans gliding towards the lake is spectacular. Not the prettiest at splashdown. Everything above the waterline is grace personified. Any wonder they have a full-length ballet named after them. Meanwhile, underneath those little red webbed feet are paddling like buggery. Once on land they are awkward. Here’s the surprise, for such beauteous birds they are mean, nasty and very fast. Many inquisitive kids paid the price of being too nosey. Those shiny red beaks take quite a nip. I assure you personally, it will heal.

My earliest knowledge that swans could be white I saw in a 1952 movie with Danny Kaye singing The Ugly Duckling while two placid specimens paddled around in the background. Now I am having my first well-distanced encounter with real white swans. Like a kid in a lolly shop, another dream fulfilled.