Category Archives: London

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An evening ride on the No.8 into Soho, London

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A big pleasure for me on this trip was that the No.8 was able to reach Soho without having to divert, or jam solid, due to roadworks around Holborn.

With those delays gone, I was able to sit back and listen to the Saturday-happy chat of those behind me, as I watched London preparing to enjoy itself through the window. At one stop, a large clutch of young women boarded the bus. They were dressed for a night out and already wobbly on their heels. I heard them laughing as they clambered in, cheerful and unworried until there was a sudden cry of alarm. The chat paused briefly then rose again with a note of panic as the whole laughing flock realised they were trying to head to who knew where, and the bus wasn’t. As we swung away from the stop, I saw them gathered back together on the pavement, feathers fluffed and shining as they pondered their options.

The group’s mood matched that spilling over the streets between Tottenham Court Road and Covent Garden. The lights were shining on the wet pavements, and the theatres looked busy, everyone relieved that the day’s rain had passed.

I cut through the back routes to get to my destination – the huge Foyles bookshop open until 9pm. As I stepped out of a smaller road to cross the main road, I looked up to see the building beside Foyle’s shining in front of me. Last time I had seen it covered in scaffolding, now there it was gleaming in brazen golds, the only blemishes being the few railings that still clung to its hem like safety pins.

I hurried past it to get where I was going, and then admired it again on my way back. It did not look that tall, but it did seem to have more than its fair share of Soho magic.

As soon as I got back I looked the building up, and discovered that it is called Ilona Rose House. So far I can only find daylight images of it, demure in pink and nothing like the building in the picture above. If the building I saw is the Ilona Rose, all I can say is that it transforms at night. Just like Sandy in Grease it changes into something a little different.

Perhaps that’s what Soho does to the best of us.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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An evening walk along the South Bank, London

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Overwhelmed by the news from Gaza of thirst and destruction, I packed up my laptop and headed off for a walk. The evening was cool and dry – one of London’s finest.

I crossed Millennium Bridge and walked down past the Tate, and the handful of outdoor entrepreneurs dotted along its edge. In the air was the sweet aroma of roasting nuts, the drift of a guitar solo, and the last few bubbles from the soapy wand of the man packing his small business up for the night. Couples and groups came and went, languages blurring together.

I walked under Blackfriars Bridge, and on past the Oxo tower. Then came the booksellers’ tables and the racket of the skate park, followed by the brightly lit rims of the small stalls beyond the Southbank Centre. Beside me the tide was high and lapping at the walkway. I reached the carousel at the end and turned around.

By now it was dark. The lights on the bridges were on, and so were the red dots marking the ends of cranes to either side of St Paul’s. They looked like Christmas baubles hung across the sky. I took some more of the photographs I can never resist, and then returned past the busker and the nutseller, and the Tate, and walked up the ramp and on to Millennium Bridge.

Lying at the far end of the bridge, in a flourescent jacket, was the artist who paints its miniature, underfoot artworks. He was intent on his work when I passed, oblivious to the feet pacing past him. For all I know he may still be there now.

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023

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Is a cockerel missing?

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I glanced at this sculpture as I rushed on towards the Gherkin. That was when I thought I noticed that something was missing.

On my way back, I slowed down and took a closer look. The cockerel was gone. All that remained was the pile of grey fibreglass rocks where he used to stand.

To doublecheck I walked around to the other side of the sculpture, drips of rain icing down inside the neck of my coat. But there was still no sign of him, although I could see the edge of the stand where he once stood on the top rock.

I paused, wondering. The plaque describing Pittu Pithu Pitoo as ‘made of fibreglass and garden ornament’ was still there, and it still listed its creator as Simeon Barclay. Just one problem – the ‘ornament’ – the cockerel – was not still there.

I took a photograph and left, hoping that the internet would help me. But the cockerel doesn’t seem to be there either. So where has he gone, with his chest out, and his feathers fine, telling the world exactly how he feels?

Copyright Georgie Knaggs & The Phraser 2023