Thursday, July 06, 2006
Then again, blighty's not so bad
Somehow when I was in America, I thought back to Britain as a really depressing, antisocial country about 50% full of yobs.
This is a skewed, cynical impression that tends to build up in me living in Islington, London, where someone tries to break into our car or burgle our flat every few months. Dave and I live in what looks a very nice street of Victorian houses - and indeed is a relatively nice street - on the border of a beautiful and expensive neighbourhood and an ugly and impoverished one. It was certainly not a cheap place to buy in London. But the crime levels do seem very high, so that we were surprised but not all that sceptical to read earlier this year that Islington officially ranks as the most crime-ridden London borough. In eighteen months living here, our house has had three attempted burglaries, our car boot has been broken into, someone has stolen our windscreen wipers and on another occasion, someone has broken our car aeriel. I've seen drug deals go on on the street outside our front door and watched gangs of up to 20 teenagers set on cars, intimidate passersby, knock a cyclist off his bike by hitting him on the head with a football, throw rocks at buses, trespass menacingly on people's doorsteps and have screaming fights.
It all sounds terrible, yet it's so normal that I feel the tiny ball of anxiety in my chest that London gives me is just me being silly. Most of the people in our neighbourhood are decent and most of the time this is just another charming Islington enclave.
Anyway, so this was how I looked back on London from America, where, as a tourist, I saw only nice places.
So coming back to this great city in our early-morning taxi ride through the streets of earnest, sweating cyclists in shorts or summer skirts, I was surprised to experience a city of industriousness, cosy Victorian terraces, cosmopolitan chic, people talking with intelligence, warm politeness, acumen and sensitivity. I suddenly remembered how friendly, how human Londoners can be.
This is a skewed, cynical impression that tends to build up in me living in Islington, London, where someone tries to break into our car or burgle our flat every few months. Dave and I live in what looks a very nice street of Victorian houses - and indeed is a relatively nice street - on the border of a beautiful and expensive neighbourhood and an ugly and impoverished one. It was certainly not a cheap place to buy in London. But the crime levels do seem very high, so that we were surprised but not all that sceptical to read earlier this year that Islington officially ranks as the most crime-ridden London borough. In eighteen months living here, our house has had three attempted burglaries, our car boot has been broken into, someone has stolen our windscreen wipers and on another occasion, someone has broken our car aeriel. I've seen drug deals go on on the street outside our front door and watched gangs of up to 20 teenagers set on cars, intimidate passersby, knock a cyclist off his bike by hitting him on the head with a football, throw rocks at buses, trespass menacingly on people's doorsteps and have screaming fights.
It all sounds terrible, yet it's so normal that I feel the tiny ball of anxiety in my chest that London gives me is just me being silly. Most of the people in our neighbourhood are decent and most of the time this is just another charming Islington enclave.
Anyway, so this was how I looked back on London from America, where, as a tourist, I saw only nice places.
So coming back to this great city in our early-morning taxi ride through the streets of earnest, sweating cyclists in shorts or summer skirts, I was surprised to experience a city of industriousness, cosy Victorian terraces, cosmopolitan chic, people talking with intelligence, warm politeness, acumen and sensitivity. I suddenly remembered how friendly, how human Londoners can be.
# posted by Olivia @ 5:06 pm 
