London Revisited: “Ageing is optional here”

London became the city of my dreams when, as a child, I read Great Expectations and went on the adventure with Mr. Pip and Mr. Pocket in one of the greatest cites on earth. Living in Ireland, a tiny island perched on the edge of Europe, most Dubliners went to England regularly. Almost all of us had relations living there and to most people I knew, despite the often bloody history between the two islands, England was a sort of extension of our country.

The first time I went to London, aged exactly sixteen and a half, (a very important age at the time, because our parents thought we were on the way to being seventeen, and therefore almost sensible), four friends took the overnight ferry from Dublin to Liverpool one Friday night and went down to London by train the following morning. Emerging from the great train station, I so excited, I might have arrived in heaven.

Not wanting to waste a second, we four girlfriends put in seven frantic hours racing around seeing as much of the city as we could, before catching the evening train back up north, then the Saturday night boat back to Dublin. I arrived home dying to show my mother my purchases; my Mary Quant make-up, union jack socks, a red fringed bag and a mad, wild hat, bought in the ultra trendy Chelsea Girl ‘boutique’. We are clearly in the early seventies.

A few years later (very few; when only nineteen) I was properly invited toLondon, to stay in a flat off Regent Street, for two whole weeks. I swooned at the thought and in truth, felt a tiny bit provincial as my clothes (at least in my view) did not measure up to a fortnight in London. I need not have worried; the person inviting me worked right in the thick of the fashion world and within two days of arriving, my wardrobe had been transformed, and my hair dyed bright red.

We had drinks at the BBC Club and my first evening was spent in the company of media people yelling at each other across the room. One lady grabbed my attention, as she sat rather imperiously meeting and greeting; when my friend, who had brought me to the club, asked if her husband was due in later, she screamed ‘he’s here already darling, reading the news…’

Later, we all went for dinner to an extremely smart restaurant where I was introduced to an amazing amount of people. I was too young, much too unimportant for them to bother with me and while everyone was polite and some very friendly indeed, they soon went back to shrieking at each other, talking about people I’d only read about.
It was fantastic to be on the inside, as it were, looking on and listening, while remaining on the outside, not being one of the crowd.

Later, an elderly gentleman arrived and having introducing himself asked ‘what do you think of London?’ I said I didn’t know it very well yet, but very much hoped to. He offered to show me around a little. It turned out that Tom, who brought me to Wheelers, the legendary fish restaurant, who explained the Promenade concerts, who made sure I knew where the Royal Academy was and St Martin in the Fields, and so many other London highlights, had been one of the BBC’s most distinguished foreign correspondents, working in Africa and various parts of the colonies. He had announced to the world on the BBC that Hitler was dead. Mr Tom Chalmers, with his cravats and his elegant cane, who looked completely at home in the Burlington Arcade, cemented my love of London.

Over the years, while never actually living there, I got to know parts of it very well, like the Sloane Square area, where my Irish friend Olive worked in Barclays Bank. An Irish company I worked for had London offices near the Ritz, and I once leapt out of a car at traffic lights during a row, ran straight through the open doors and down to the left where, in the comfort of the splendid Ritz Hotel ladies room, I worked off my temper by re-doing my face.

This year, on a quick visit, I left the West End alone and for the first time booked into the huge Marriott Hotel overlooking Canary Wharf. Here, among the towers, the glass and steel monuments to money making, as curious as it may seem, I found everything I wanted and needed just now. Top restaurants and super shops all within walking distance and a splendid view over to the city; the Gherkin and the Shard lit up at night. Canary Wharf, now generally agreed to have taken over as the central hub of the financial world, provided me with a much appreciated blast of luxury. The glamorous waitresses and waiters who work at the Manhattan Grill in the Marriott were only short of picking up the cutlery and eating my food for me, such was the service.

Regent Street, London, at Holiday time; Wikipedia

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London Revisited: “Ageing is optional here”

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