The Book Tower

I’m currently reading The Book of Dave by Will Self and I really think I’m going to finish it. My life has hitherto been Selfless, but I’m enjoying this one very much. And although his vision of London (both present and future) is an unusual one, it’s got me thinking a lot about my home city. It also proved a perfect companion for me on a recent trip down to the smoke. I moved out of London seven years ago and don’t visit that often. Whenever I do, it’s usually work related – a ninety minute train journey followed by tube stress to somewhere-or-other for sometimes only a two hour meeting. Then the tube and train business in reverse and often a guilty Burger King snatched on the way. And whenever I do visit London these days I feel further removed from it; the underground connections I have to make are less embedded in my memory, I don’t recognise the free newspapers that people try to hand to me, everywhere just seems to be standing room only.

So it’s always with a mixture of trepidation, wonder, nervousness, excitement, mystery and romance when I travel to London. This time I was visiting the BBC Weather Centre in Wood Lane on a work-related trip; the mystery and trepidation looming large as I had not yet met either my potential new pals at the BBC nor even the fellow colleagues from the organisation I work for. Many of these meetings simply don’t work out as you fail to gel with eachother, although on this occasion all concerned were pleasant and likeable, so the trip quicky began to morph into one of excitement and possibility.

I haven’t been to the BBC Television Centre for a long time, and in that time it’s changed beyond recognition. There’s the obvious architechtural changes such as the space age frontage to the building complete with automatic swivel doors that appear to have escaped any usability testing (momentarily encasing two of my alarmed colleagues within their glass walls), but I noticed more the change in culture. Where it used to be such a laid back place, with the likes of John Craven and Valerie Singleton strolling around holding their styrofoam tea cups, it’s now so very hustle and bustle, so business-oriented. And a lot less charming. Apart from the weather presenters, we spotted no tv celebrities. Or none I recognised. Perhaps the tv stars of today are so much less noticeable and blend in with the staff and visitors, although the building did appear strangely devoid of all creativity and actual programme making. We were constantly overtaken by groups of teenagers as they were given quick tours of the BBC of long ago, shown where the Blue Peters and Record Breakers of yesteryear were filmed.

Memories and expectations aside, we still had a great time visiting the BBC, but with business easy to complete our visit was brief and we were out of the swing doors back into Wood Lane in what felt like record time. I’ll probably be returning quite soon now that we’ve hit it off, but my next visit will be no less romance and memory fuelled. As we climbed the steps on White City station I looked back at the already thickening traffic, pleased I’d come but equally pleased I was leaving. As we held ourselves up on the speeding tube back to Paddington we passed the time with our London anecdotes, where we’d lived, the nightmare commuting journeys we’d taken. London has become the stuff of personal battle, the stuff of personal legend.

I love my quick and periodic visits to the Capital but it’s a three stage process; get in, do your stuff, get out. When I eventually find a seat on my train home it’s with a sigh of relief. The mobile comes out of the pocket to inform my loved ones of when I’ll be returning, and then the book comes out of the rucksack. In this case a wonderful dose of Will Self.