I WAS HERE
TEXT1 The day I came home from our first English lesson at primary school, I told my Dad they told us to make our own dictionary - notebook. It had to be divided into three columns - spelling, transcription, and translation. Later that day, Dad gave me a thick notebook with a dark blue hardcover of artificial leather clipped with big white buttons. Instead of lined paper, it had many little, tiny blue squares. It wasn't a notebook you could find in the stationary. It felt special to possess one. The notebook lasted me for many years; eventually, the buttons loosened, the pages started to fall out, and I had to abandon it. I don't need to write down every new word in English I come across any more, yet I still miss my blue-covered notebook from Dad.
TEXT12
People say London is: " a proud city, the Themes, double-deckers, Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Wembley, historic, Royal, a city filled with magic, cultural, full of hidden gems, Russel Square, Forever Amber, my home for the last 21 years, bad tap water, chatty postmen, part of my family history, a memory of a family trip, a city of contrasts, young people’s dreamin’, a weekend of fun, the best gin ever, punk, Vivian Westwood, a city of contrast, silly high prices, the biggest money laundry, nobody is indeed a stranger here…”
TEXT3
For me,
London is a map
that never got
cleared up...
TEXT4"You have some good food here," said the woman. When I finished work, they were always there – the homeless people of Soho. in their tents and sleeping bags. Most often than not, they were asking for cigarettes or change. "Here," I passed her the bag with my staff food. She took it without saying anything. By the time I got home, the barbeque we had planned for the evening was over, and Everyone was sleeping. Too tired to bother cooking, I went to bed straight away, laughing at the irony. But at least I had a bed. Someone else didn't.
Text5 Walking the streets of Soho for one last time, I looked at every note on the shop windows advertising job vacancies. Eventually, I got myself a working interview at another burger restaurant. I read the reviews on the Internet, and I was surprised to see amongst them a familiar name of a guy I knew from Dumfries. He said they are using horse meat for the burgers at this restaurant which put me off. Nevertheless, I went for it. They didn’t provide uniforms, so I bought a black T-shirt from a sale nearby. They didn’t have a staff room either. I changed in the basement, where the kitchen was as well. it was pretty basic. a member of staff walked me into the restaurant after that. She explained to me the routine of doing things. I helped with the prep for opening the restaurant by filling in some jars of water, and stuff like that. I don’t remember if I served any customers, but the manager called me soon after we started. He asked me how I felt about the job. At the time I didn’t have a vast waitressing experience and I admitted there was a lot to learn but I want to try it. The manager replied that they had more people coming later that day and that he would give me a call. I didn’t come back to Soho for another 6 years.
Text6 …How did I ever forget the Roman mosaic on the threshold?...
A couple of young girls Greeted me at the door - now - painted in mauve. They looked and sounded Italian. I asked if I could have a drink. I sat by the window staring out at the street. Across the road, there was a photography studio I couldn’t remember.
When the waitress came with my drink, I asked her if I could go around and take some photos. It was all different now. The old entrance of the kitchen was sealed, and Ornamented mirrors were mounted on the wall instead. Where did all the people go? I never know.
…“krava (Cow)” I heard the chef saying as I passed. He didn’t expect I would understand him but apparently, it was the same word in check language as in Bulgarian. “Why are you insulting me?”, I turned to him. He did not answer but I could see him blushing.
By the time I finished, customers had started coming through the door. another evening was on Frith Street.
Text7The pretty – girl next door was a Roma from Eastern Europe. She was younger than me, but she had four children. "She has a good job at Leicester Square," the Host said once. "She has been just promoted to a supervisor. She organizes events or something. Big tips. Ask her to help you. You will never be able to save money for your place in London with your job.” One day, The pretty girl - next door invited me for lunch. As I walked into the house, she was putting on her make-up. "I'll be just a second," she excused herself, "my husband …. he wants me to make the effort for him, not just for work." We had a simple traditional bean stew. The pretty girl- next door didn't cook it herself. She had a woman to help her with the housework. Asking about her job, The Pretty girl- next door was vague, but she promised to put a good word for me. A couple of weeks passed, but I never heard from her again. Until one evening, when I got home, a small party was going on. The pretty – girl - next door was dancing in the kitchen with the Host. I opened a bottle of beer, and I sat by the hostess and her friend in the living room. When the song was over, the pretty - girl- next door staggered in, mumbling it was getting late. She was trying to avoid me, but I jumped off my seat. "Hey. do you have any news for me?" I asked. The pretty - girl- next door. She tried to smile. As she leaned over, I could smell the alcohol. "Listen," she whispered, "I don't work in a restaurant." She pulled back and looked at me as if she wanted to ensure I was taking on board her words. "I'm a stripper. If you want to become a stripper, you can start tomorrow. But There is no restaurant. It's a gent's club.". And she walked on
TEXT8City Buzz. Night bus. Black Friday tourists. "Please, wait to be seated." Lunchbreak walks. Old Compton Street. Carnaby Street. Dean street. Carlisle Street. Berwick Street. Frith street. Taking photos. Saturday night. Soho Bar. People dancing. "Fight for the fairy tale. It does exist", Facebook says. Casting agency photoshoot. Moving out, moving in. "You are not a good fit for our team." Night bus. Christmas lights.
Text9
“Are you taking photos?”, asked the guy on Shaftesbury Avenue. “I am.”, I replied. “Where are you from”, he kept on. “I’m from Bulgaria. But I live in Scotland”, I said. “It’s cold in Scotland. I couldn’t live there”, he shook his head, “It’s cold”, I agreed, “But I tried moving to London some time ago, and it didn’t work.” I shrugged my shoulders. “You’ve lived in London”, he exclaimed. “I did. For a few months only. It was busy then! “, I looked around. “Do you like London better now? I like London more now when it’s empty”, he concluded. “I don’t know. I’m here just for a couple of days”, I said unsure what to say,” but maybe I’ll come back and give it another try”, I smiled at him putting my camera away. “Please, do come back to London” -he exclaimed again. “It’s nice and empty now. come back to London.” He repeated, wandering off into the night.
Text10"Syd was the most un-vicious person I have ever met," I read Johnny Rotten saying. Punk was the tune of my youth. We, the last generations born and bred in communism. As if puberty is not a dramatic time enough, we dealt with a fair amount of drastic political and social changes during our teenage years. As puppy seals, we learned to swim in the melting ice waters. Not all of us ever made it safely to the shore. They said a great future was opening for us, but we were too young to handle all those rising expectations. We instinctively rebelled against it, and we all fought with our parents; they didn't have much time for us anyway, trying to put food on the table. Compared to kids today, we don't have social media or other entertainment sources. Cinemas and theatres across the country started turning into casinos and nightclubs. At the same time, extracurricular activities were shut down due to a lack of funding. We didn't have things like Saturday jobs, low-cost flights, or travelling the world in your gap year – travelling visas were hard to get anyway. Our world smelled like cheap cigarettes and wine, but it was filled with campfires, hitchhiking, long conversations, and cassette music. Punk may be dead, but it kept me kicking for many years. Little did I know, that one day, I'll be another anarchist in the UK.
Text11.Something is comforting about city public transport. It is almost like a time machine. You sit down, plug in your headphones, and let it go. Your mind is wandering through the day while the driver takes you through the familiar streets - now a dazzling parade of neon. Your heart beats with the heart of the city. Millions of people are pulsating in the same rhythm. A story of triumph and loss we are all part of. Those are the people on the night bus - dressed in black. They all look the same. Tired. Yet, proud they made it to another day. Getting on. Getting off. Dreaming your dream. Crying your tears. Fighting your battles. People say cities are lonely places. But I find it the opposite; cities are the sanctuary for the lonely.
TEXT12
…and once again
as softly as a curtain,
the night is falling,
bringing back to a glory
the streets of Soho.
among beautiful strangers
I'm walking
once again
as anonymous as ever.
Lust for life?
What has been, shall be…