”It’s a fine line between love and hate” – who sang that? Chrissie Hynde I think…
Sometimes I love the river Thames, it’s gracefulness, it’s power and it’s beauty. I love the life it carries on it’s back and all that lives and breathes along it’s edges, as it courses through the city. I love how it represents the ebb and flow of daily life, it’s ability to rise above humanity. When I see a picture of it, it reminds me of a spine, a backbone, supporting the whole of the city. Sometimes though, I hate it’s arrogance, it’s strength and it’s deep unforgiving refusal to slow down or stop for anything or anyone. Sometimes it frightens me, angers me because it reminds me of how insignificant I am and gives me a sense of my own mortality. At other times it fills me with a huge sense of life at it’s simplest level, a telling reminder that life will go on, no matter what and that when you are ready to face the world again, it can lift you up, carry you along and take you anywhere you want to go.
I love Richmond Park, the changing light, the colours, the deer, the people, the coffee, the walks. I hate the angry cyclists though. They race along the pedestrian path shouting abuse at anyone who dares to stand in their way. They race in packs, like schools of fish on the road too and recently I saw a terrible accident. I was the second car to arrive at the scene. The cyclist was unconscious. Someone was holding his head. Someone else was on the phone shouting at the operator for not knowing where exactly they were in the park. I was surprised at how ineffective I was – running about, unsure of what to do next. I gave him my coat to keep him warm and I sat and tried to console the devastated driver until the professionals arrived. “Are you the driver?” had never had a more ominous meaning. He wasn’t expected to live. His name was Patrick. He was in his 20’s. The man who witnessed the accident said he was thrown right over the top of the car. His bicycle lay mangled under the wheels of the car. I phoned the police the next day to find out how he was. They sent me a witness report. He was in Charing Cross Hospital. I wanted to visit him, but didn’t really understand why. I often think about him and wonder if he survived.
Sometimes I love the anonymity of the City. That you can go anywhere and be anyone you like. That it is bursting with opportunity and possibility. Sometimes I hate that fact that nobody wants to know me, that nobody wants to talk to me, that everybody is closed. It makes me want to strike up a conversation with a stranger. Who knows where that might lead? Although this is something that I need to watch because my mother talks to strangers all the time and I can tell that the strangers think she’s mad.
