I was in central London on Wednesday, just a few days after the recent terror attack. As someone who’s been eye-to-barrel with a loaded gun, I’m understandably a little shaken when something violent like that happens. The sight of small children playing cowboys with water pistols can sometimes set me off. So before I ventured into the city I took a moment to prepare myself for the journey. I watched the news and focused on images of police officers and soldiers protecting the city – particularly the ones with guns.
I was really afraid of going in. Afraid to go on the
underground. Afraid to travel on the buses. Afraid to be in busy areas filled
with people, people who might be plotting something awful. Afraid to see a
cloud of anxiety dampening the energy around one of the world’s most awesome
cities. A city that represents the peaceful merging of multiple cultures.
When one of my colleagues suggested we meet on the
platform in Guildford and head into Euston together as a team, I jumped at the
opportunity. I usually avoid group activities. I’m vehemently independent, so
much so that my actions can sometimes come across as rude. Though I’m an
extrovert, I’m a little different to most. Sometimes I need more space to feel
like I can breathe. Sometimes I need to think more than speak and listen. And
often this means I don’t want to be in a group of people when I’m feeling uncomfortable.
After rushing around, believing I was late and had missed
our train, I found myself on the designated platform half-an-hour early, mentally
preparing for a challenging day. My colleagues found me in line desperately ordering
coffee from a kiosk that didn’t accept cards (balls!) I then sent them
scrambling for cash while all the suburb-to-city-caffeine-depraved commuters
behind me made tut-tut noises under their breaths (yup – I was that asshole). I then took one sip of
the murky, brown brew and then chucked it – it was truly terrible.
After all my rushing, squabbling and weirdness, I
realised that I was the only person who was the slightest bit anxious. My
colleagues were all cheery and completely relaxed; chatting about boring stuff
like what new digital things they’ve tried recently. The voice in my head was
screaming ‘Really? We’re going into a city where people died at the hands of
terrorists four days ago and you’re chatting about memes and holidays and
mundaneness? We could all die!’
That’s the thing about the English. They don’t panic.
They don’t make a fuss. They go on. When their cities were bombed during the
World Wars, they suited up, drank their tea, made biscuits from whatever
rations they had and went about their daily lives like nothing of particular
importance was happening. My granny sometimes spoke about calmly heading down
into the underground when the sirens sounded. Those times must have been terrifying
but they didn’t stop her from living her life. She fell in love, travelled, got
married and ‘went on’ during the war.
More recently when a talented young, American pop star
returned to head-up a benefit concert for fans injured in the Manchester Terror
Attack, the English showed up in their masses and had a brilliant party. (btw I
salute you Ariana.) When three idiots ran around Borough Market stabbing people
in the name of religion (an act that seems far removed from the religious
ideals they claim to uphold), Londoners banded together to help each other.
In my years in the UK, I’ve encountered only three things
that can upset the English – obscure tea (anything that’s not English
Breakfast, Ceylon or Earl Grey), bad biscuits and the weather. The first two
are rather rectifiable and don’t cause too much offense. But the third is a bit
of a pain – nothing brings the city of London to a standstill like three tiny
flakes of snow falling on the train tracks. Nothing! This just goes to show
that the despicable creatures who aimed to create havoc are weaker than a few flimsy
flakes of frozen water.
My trip into London was almost-disappointingly uneventful
on Wednesday. We even went ‘up the pub’ for a few pints and some Pimms after
finishing our meeting a bit early – as you do. The city was its usual bustling,
chaotic, orderly self. If anything, people on the tube were a little friendlier
and slightly more polite than usual. I recognised the usual London I know and love.
In my initial months in the UK, I found the excessive,
conversations around which tea biscuit is best and whether Jaffa Cakes are
classified as cakes or biscuits (a conversation that starts politely but can set
off rather vicious debate), and the lack of challenging views around politics
and world affairs, rather frustrating. And I’ll probably never fully get it.
But what I’m totally learning to subscribe to is the concept of not being
flustered by anything that you can’t control.
We can’t control the attempts by some to diminish our
order, our happiness and our democracy. So any attack on us will be brushed
off. It will not stop me and others from embracing our cities and enjoying
their energy, beauty and soulfulness. I can control the biscuits I eat and the
‘stupid, milky’ tea I choose to drink, so I will fight off anyone who dares to
insult my snacks of choice.
I’m learning that sometimes it’s better to sweat the
small stuff so you can manage the situation and get what you want (like
complaining to the bank and getting £50 as an apology), and stick your chin up
through the big stuff that can’t be controlled – like a Brit. Life goes on… we
should go on too. Now just to get the railways to see snowflakes as the ‘small
stuff’.
