At Seven Dials

I made my way towards my contact point to look for Rupert. He would be standing underneath the needle at the Seven Dials, in Covent Garden, a pillar which acts as a massive sundial, and would be directly under the shadow of the needle when it hit 3 o’ clock.

The Seven Dials is a meeting point of six roads and in the middle, the Seven Dials sundial pillar towers over the inhabitants of the city, an unmovable reminder that although the changes in London are constant, time can never erode London’s history. Although initially being re- designed by Thomas Neale in the early 1690s as a gentifified area, it deteriorated and quickly became a byword for poverty, unsuccessfully patroled by the predecesors of the Bow – Street – Runners, and remaining that way until the second half of the twentieth century. Although it now appears to be an extension of the shopping district area of Neal Street, the odd bit of old London remains, including the Crown pub and some of the buildings themselves. Confusingly, the sundial has six faces, and it is often suggested that the seventh face is the shadow on the floor itself.

I was slightly early upon arriving and walked into the Crown for an afternoon pint, a cozy place with a real fire and a terrific selection of ales. I lit up my pipe and was immediately approached by a member of staff. Apart from being delighted about bumping into an English barman (Rupert had told me that they were all Australian), I felt a fool for forgetting Rupert's warning that a smoking ban had been imposed on the whole country since last year, which frankly, I feel is a disgrace; as the one thing that every Englishman should have the right to in my opinion is the right to sit by a fire with his pint and enjoy a smoke on his pipe. I ended our conversation by saying loudly, “I am English, Sir!”.

I reluctantly shuffled outside into the cold to smoke my pipe to find that London’s history seems to sustain in both positive and negative ways, as a young hooded homeless man with a beard reminded me, by pressing his face up against mine when I refused to give him money. Despite knowing I could seriously hurt this heroin addicted idiot I decided not to jeopardise my misson by fighting with him and gave him my remaining change. He spat on me and threw my fifteen pence into a drain. Wiping the spittle off my face, with my hankerchief I wondered if the same thing happened to Dickens when he visited the slums at Seven Dials; another reminder that the blueprint... the psychical skeleton of history is never completely eroded and I thought of Karl Marx's quote that "history repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as farce".

I conclude for certain that I really did make the right decision when I decided to leave this city.

I walked back into the warmth, safety and crimson shades of the Crown; a womb of protection against the hordes of evil Londoners. I supped my IPA and the problems of the world dissappeared. Looking at my watch, I realised it was three o’ clock. Peering through the window of the Crown I could see a young man standing underneath the shadow of the column: about six foot tall in his late twenties, cool indifference shielding deep insecurity. I cannot give more of a description for fear of giving away his identity. It was Rupert.