Mind the Gap

I walked through Soho this evening, winding my way through the streets from Old Compton Street to Oxford Circus. It’s such a wonderful part of London, hidden away from all the tourists who bustle and screech around its outer rim. It makes me very sad to see the gentrification: the “boutique” chains, the fancy pads, the shiny hetty bars, where once grubby all-night cafes and ramshackle gay bars stood.

There was still a vestige of the old Soho magic there this evening. The streets were dark. People were drifting at a country pace. Arriving at Oxford Circus was like descending into Dante’s Inferno. A massive swirl of people on the pavement was attempting to push its way down into the tube. It was such a horrifying sight that I simply kept on walking. There was no way I was ever going to willingly put myself into such a dangerous and claustrophobia-inducing crush of people. I certainly wasn’t prepared to PAY for the privilege.

Instead, I walked back to Tottenham Court Road and browsed around Foyles bookshop, which was a delightfully calming experience. I bought myself a copy of When the Wind Blows. I initially tried to find it in the children’s section but when I asked the woman behind the counter, she shuddered, and said, “it’s the saddest graphic novel in the world, I just don’t think it’s going to be in the children’s section!” She was right. It was up with the graphic novels for adults.

...And that was my little trip around Soho. There’s a memory there on every corner of every street, from outrageous nights out with Philip Sallon and the cast of Taboo, to midnight demonstrations and vigils against homophobia. I still remember the excitement I felt on seeing a row of gay bars for the first time in my life, and the terror I felt that spring afternoon in 1998 when the nail bomb went off at the Admiral Duncan, less than two hundred meters from where I was working.

Those streets certainly hold more than their fair share of memories.

Speaking of memories, I read a rather charming story yesterday about the “mind the gap” announcements they used to play on the Northern Line. They were recorded, some forty years ago, by an actor who recently died. His widow, missing him terribly, would often go to Embankment Station, and sit waiting for the trains to rush into the station, so she could hear her husband’s voice. One day she waited for the announcement to discover that it had been pensioned off. She was devastated.

When Transport for London heard about the sorry tale, they instantly changed their minds and decided to keep the actor’s voice, just at Embankment, until his widow had died and no longer needed to hear her husband’s voice. And if you don’t feel moved by that, you’re made of stone!