Around the World with Bradley: Travel in London

Arrive at Heathrow:

Light cover of fluffy dry snow. No wind. Fresh, brisk. Not freezing cold.

 

Heathrow airport is more multiracial than South African airports. People genuinely mix. In South Africa we had separate blobs of black and white. Like oil and water in the same bucket but remaining separate.  Heathrow everybody has mixed. Many multiracial groups. Much more natural.

We return to Heathrow about a week later.

I say to Jimmy: Heathrow is big.”

Heathrow is bigger than big. Walkways stretch without end.

American passengers. Intimidating with loud voices and their self confidence.

We book in and another passenger books in. She complains about sitting in the bulkhead. I don’t want to listen to screaming babies all the way.

Lady tells me she has been vising her five sisters living in London. Two days with each sister. Each organized two days of activities. Each tried to top the others. She packed a lot in. Now she needs a holiday.

Airport looks clean healthy. Fruit salads. All bars are non-smoking. What a relief.

Moderate covering of snow. Clear skies. Aeroplan taxis over a highway.

 

We drove around in a misted car.

Passenger: Turn left at roundabout. Second right at roundabout. No, no left. No take the 623 to Feltham.

I peer through misted windows. Schizophrenic semi-detached houses. Half one colour. Half another colour. Dead gardens. Dead trees waiting for their resurrection.  All life inside the houses. A few horses with horse blankets. Light covering of disappearing vanishing snow. A few squirrels scurry for safety. No stray dogs.

Drive through the countryside. Fields; dormant hedges; light dusting of snow; narrow roads; mainly terrace houses or semi-detached houses with no front garden.

Snow turns to slush. TV ads full of snow/ice scenes before slush; people playing in the snow.

 

 

Back on the underground. Very crowded. Standing holding onto strap handles. Swaying. Brace for acceleration, and deacceleration. Peer at name of station.

Very cosmopolitan crowd. Everybody looks at Bradley.  Women speak.

An alcohol boards and places his deckchair down, suits in it and drinks from a can of beer. People laugh at him. He sleeps. If he misses his station nobody cares. He doesn’t care.