In earlier times we

would cycle to work

leaving from Brixton

through the fog-fumed

traffic with smog masks

over our mouth and nose

looking every inch like the

silver screen desperadoes

of the western films – if

lucky enough we could grab

the tail board of a chugging

lorry and free-wheel while

thinking that was the bees

knees – it wasn’t without

risk of course – coming to

grief might mean damage

to a face or limb – but in

those times we seemed to

worry less about the journey

in, than what awaited all of us

on getting to the one square mile

which is where the bile would

really start – stories of the war

were yet retold – and buildings

still intact were boarded up

with bomb sites looking desolate

in parts, especially round the quays

and wharves where reconstruction

was on hold and old sweats told

their gory tales of went on before

when firemen risked life and limb

to quell the soaring flames around

the river Thames as walls collapsed

and Armageddon seemed on hand

with city Bobbies looking tall and grand

sporting a crested helmet with a

ridge along, and on one sleeve was

worn a zebra armband (white and

red) – as pedestrians waited for the

lights to change – except where men

with gauntlet sleeves  on podiums

allowed them then to cross at will and

cockneys still, describe them as Old Bill

who never thought it strange when lights

had failed to single handedly control an

eight lane traffic interchange by the Bank

of England where the future of all our

UK currency was game on, even when our

rainier days poured forth the challenges

and left us in the thrall of Uncle Sam.




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Paul Sayer

Fri 15th Nov 2019 14:32

What a journey!

Great descriptive piece of writing.

That last line is insightful.

Well captured

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