After beholding the wonder of the Swiss Re Tower (or whatever you wish to refer to it as), I headed directly North, taking the rather narrow and un-welcoming route of Bury, Goring, and Cutler Streets. In the process, I happened upon The City location of the infamous financial institution Northern Rock, which caused a panic in the streets of England last September when I was in the country (that being my first time in England, this being my first time in London). Northern Rock suddenly found itself running short of cash due to lending more money than it had and had borrowed money in turn from other banks, who had also… does this sound familiar? Yes, spot on, this was the start of the entire matter that was done on a much grander scale — as it usually is no matter what the undertaking — in the American Financial market. Now, just over year later, here I was in ‘the Sceptrèd Isle’ again as the economic world exploded around me; earlier there was a report in a newspaper of the Toronto Stock Exchange having a record-breaking one-day drop in stock prices, causing one to wonder if the entire world monetary system was on the brink of collapse and would one be able to return home after all? The answer to that question was simple: if that happens, max-out the VISA, head to The Pineapple in Kentish Town, and bolt the door; job done!

The matter of the financial world going hay-wire every time one’s visited the Mother Country does make one feel a tad self-conscious, however: soon someone will make the connection and ban me from ever returning to ‘this green and pleasant land’. I don’t think anyone’s blaming me for these things… yet…

Arriving in what is probably “Cutlers Gardens” (it’s around here that I decided to merely head in the general direction of ‘north’ with not much more than impulse to dictate the specifics, so details get a tad fuzzy as a result), wandering into a large assemblage of buildings enclosed within a wrought-iron fence of tall spikes. A pocket-handkerchief-sized lawn was just off to the right inside a traffic-controlling arm, and the path lead on into the heart of the stretch, where an alcove revealed a raised plateau leading to an entrance to one of the buildings. At the front edge of the plateau was a planted area with a sculpture of an arresting design [see image, right]. Upon closer examination, an explanatory sign was at its base, stating:

King Edgar (959 – 75) granted this derelict land to thirteen knights, on condition that they each perform three duels, one on land, one below ground, one on the water. These feats having been achieved, the King gave the knights, or Cnihtengild, certain rights over a piece of land ‘from Aldgate to the place where the bars are now, toward the east, on both sides of the lane, and extended it toward the gate now known as Bishopsgate in the north, to the house of William the Priest… and to the south to the Thames as far as a horseman riding into the river at low tide can throw a lance.’

This sculpture by Denys Mitchell, commissioned by the Standard Life Assurance Company, commemorates the Cnihtengild and was unveiled by the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor, Sir Alexander Graham G.B.E. D.C.L. on 21^st November 1990.

How fascinating! As a good photographic angle or two was being determined, one was hailed by an astonishingly polite and friendly-looking security man whose accent sounded vaguely African in origin, and whose over-all shape seemed vaguely Brobdingnagian in dimension. “Excuse me, Sir”, he said, “are you a tourist?” Initially the whole thing was a bit of a rattle-inducing moment, so this sounded like something ending in “florist”, but obviously wasn’t, so I merely replied “…sorry?” He repeated his query and I replied that he was correct in his assumption. “Well, Sir, photographs are not allowed to be taken here. I’m terribly sorry, Sir.”

This degree of seeming reluctance to actually enforce the regulations of his employer, with which he was specifically tasked, seemed a bit at odds with the fact he could have easily killed me using but his bare hands and not even a modicum of effort. My mind boggled with a number of thoughts, including ‘but why pray tell; this is hardly a headquarters for MI5, surely?’ as well as ‘I do apologise for being so forward as to give you cause to kill me; please forgive me, as I’m suffering the nasty birth defect of being a Canadian and know not the ways of this land…’

Suddenly a taller — and presumably more senior — like-dressed individual appeared from behind a construction screen and called out “It’s alright! I’ve called him in, and it’s fine. Leave the man alone.”

As the question of why one’s presence and/or photo-taking activity would have to be called-in — never mind the thought of ‘to whom would such a call be made?’ — I turned to the polite monstrosity of human flesh and sought confirmation of what seemed to be permission to record the sculpture’s greatness, which was granted by a simple nod and his hearty smile’s return to his face.

Mildly shaken, I took a few photos, then went my way through the quadrangle, which seemed to be under some sort of refurbishment. There also seemed to be an inordinate number of security personnel throughout the area. Why this was so wasn’t apparent, as a Life Assurance company doesn’t exactly rate National Security Protection, surely? Perhaps there was a Minister of Some Important Office or the Chancellor of the Exchequer was to give a speech or address a conference somewhere in the complex about the continuing financial turmoil. Not a clue ever presented itself, but the amount of security at the New Street entrance, through which I made good my egress, included a very plain vehicle from which a pair of serious-looking and heavily-padded gentlemen emerged. How the control on the south-side of the area could be so lax as to permit a common git to wander in entirely unchallenged is an intriguing contrast to the other end of the experience. Perhaps because I was wearing a tie and jacket? And I’m both short-haired and an honky?

Answers on a post-card, please.

Also confusing was why there was a statue of a ram on the top of an arch at the end of New Street. Perhaps it was Aries, which makes it even more confusing. Perhaps it represented the source of the wool or mutton which was originally processed in the area the other side of its opening. Whatever the reason, it seemed incongruous in the extreme.

As I continued north — past the massive Liverpool Street Station and into the Shoreditch District of Hackney — the close proximity of contrasting highs and lows was awe-inspiring. Behold, for instance the two images taken at Fairchild Place and Great Eastern Street below:

This is the same spot, and the two face each other. Stunningly wonderful, as all matters and undertakings have a place in the city’s whole. Fabulous!

I meandered further along Great Eastern, noting the continuing contrast of old and new happily co-existing, and then happened upon a sign that drew one’s mind to thoughts of Dickensian literature supposedly being honoured: Expectations. “I wonder”, one thought, “if they’re being modest and leaving off the ‘Great’ so as to not to raise people’s hopes unduly?” Passing the entrance’s alcove, a poster revealed itself, displaying an image of an entirely opposite nature to anything ever even hinted at in a book with Dickens’s name upon it’s frontispiece. Expectations, you see, is a retail company who specialise in leather, rubber, latex, and fetish gear, marketing principally to the Homosexual market. Which I’ve nothing against at all, but it wasn’t what one had in mind when seeing the sign, really.

So much for Victoriana…

Eventually I returned to the hotel, realised I hungered, then went out seeking food. Sadly, owing to lack of enthusiasm and imagination, dinner was located at the corner of York Way and Pentonville Road: M^cDonald’s. I know, I know… there I am in one of the very first World Cities and I head for something which at home I would avoid like the very plague which destroyed in this area only because of the city burning to the ground. Yet, fatigue of both the mental and physical sort was stronger than one’s resistance, and so the ubiquitous American Common Culture was knelt to.

Besides, when the day’s weather was once pleasant but has disintegrated to the sort presented below, the only other possibility would have been a chip van, but that sort of nonsense is looked down upon within Greater London, probably.

And so, to bed. Bah!

When we left off, St Paul’s had been espied, and the size of the thing was sufficient to knock one for six (a phrase I’ve never looked into the derivation of, but no doubt someone will provide the information now that the question’s been put). After going into the British Museum and coming out of a single gallery with a brain fully saturated with information, it seemed a wise move to not go on the tour of the Cathedral (plus one saves £8 in the bargain). The Golden Gallery and The Whispering Gallery would have been cool to check out, but that’s next time and someone will have to accompany me so that the latter’s acoustics can be confirmed as functioning in the famous manner.

So… to sit upon the steps, look at the statue of Her Late Majesty Queen Victoria (HON. MEMBERS: Hear, hear!), and see if the laptop can connect to a Wi-Fi network, so that an e-mail can be sent to Jennifer saying ‘guess where I’m typing this?’ Sadly, there’s no signal that I can access. Damn.

However, there is — just across the square from the historical building and equally historical monument to the longest-reigning Monarch in English History [image, above left] — a Pizza Express declaring its lengthy existence in the location, a mighty history of some several full years numbering almost two digits!

It’s enough to make one shake one’s head.

The imposing sight of the place [image, right] really can’t be over-stated. This is a cathedral with one stated goal: to impart to all who approach it that, while they may be in the city which is considered the cradle of modern civilisation, they are but human and Mighty is The Lord whose house stands before them. They are to feel humble and know their mortal limitations before Him. This edifice succeeds fully at its task. The inscription on Sir Christopher Wren’s tomb in the Cathedral’s crypt is quite right to state Lector, si Monumentum Requiris, Circumspice, for it is a mighty monument to the power of a belief in God, no matter what your own religious outlook may be.

Onwards, then, and into the area most commonly thought of when someone speaks of having an office in ‘The City’: the Financial District. Here is where the Stock Exchange, the Bank of England, and numerous investment and financial companies have their headquarters. Oddly, some people are so well off from the business they do, they can even use the sides of their buildings for the purpose of shopping lists [see photo, below left].

Arriving in the area around Bank Station — located at the conflagration of Prince’s, Lombard, Queen Victoria, Cornhill, and Threadneedle Streets — we see the historical heart of English Commerce: The Royal Exchange! Now used as an luxury shopping centre, it consists of a number of floors and office spaces surrounding a central courtyard which was once where merchants and tradesmen could do business and the place to go and buy and sell stocks. During the mid-1950s, stock trading having all but entirely stopped during the Second World War, the central courtyard was transformed into The Mermaid Theatre and productions of As You Like it and Macbeth were staged in honour of Queen Elizabeth II’s coronation in 1953 (although one wonders about the propriety of the second title as something to honour a coronation) as it was Queen Elizabeth I who gave the decree that the original Exchange be henceforth termed “Royal”.

As I took a number of photographs of it [right], I was impressed with the architectural grandness of this monument of National Finance… because I thought it was the Bank of England. Days later came realisation that the Bank of England was, in fact, building which was provided such a handy thing to jump up on the ledges of so as to find a better angle to take pictures of what was now a shopping mall for those people still possessing enough money to buy and sell me thrice over. This is the problem with exploring a city without a native to guide you about and explain what’s what, what? Domine Dirige Nos indeed!

[sigh]

Onwards again, further into ‘The Square Mile’ to the immediate East and North of this spot, which not only houses the two buildings mentioned, but also the headquarters for Lloyd’s of London, the residence of the Lord Mayor, the Swiss Re Tower (aka: “30 St. Mary Axe”, its address; “The Gherkin”; “The Towering Innuendo”; The Crystal Phallus”, which is also a pun on ‘The Crystal Palace’; “The Glass Dildo”), and Tower 42 (formerly “the NatWest Tower”, due to it being the headquarters for the National Westminster Bank).

The last of those buildings listed wasn’t on the “List of Things to See” for the day, but upon crossing Gracechurch Street, a quick glance to the left brought me almost to a complete halt as the sight of a chunk of New York City seemed to have been plonked down in the middle of London. After a quick shot or two of that monstrosity (and the tallest building in the UK until 1 Canada Place was built on Canary Warf), the headquarters for Lloyd’s was sought.

Other than the fact that its design was ‘modern’ and ‘futuristic’, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I was looking for. When, after wending one’s way through some fairly traditional Victorian-era constructions lining a number of winding streets, the location was confirmed by looking at the map and checking intersecting streets about half-a-dozen times, the only reaction to coalesce was “you’re kidding; that’s Lloyd’s?” As I looked at it [image, left], the thought “well, it’ll look great once it’s done” came to mind, along with the possibility that it would have fit perfectly as part of the landscape of Blade Runner (although it’s said the inspiration for that story’s city was a number of weeks in Vancouver, along with the author taking a large amount of acid). Looking at the photos now, I still am at a loss to decide whether or not I like it. Apparently the real time to see it is at night, for the architects have been able to provide the drama and colour to make it truly become what matches their original idea for the building. As one didn’t see that, nor can one easily locate any photos of it at night, I shall have to return to this in the evening during the next visit to this city.

Turning North, I beheld 30 St. Mary Axe: the building named for a pickle [image below, taken from opposing direction than indicated by the narrative]. And, Lord, it certainly does look like one. When viewed from the correct direction, there’s even a green tint to sections of it. This building, one can take to easily, as the lines are much more welcoming than the ‘kitchen implement’ features of the Lloyd’s building. Around the base of it is a plaza, which must be filled on a summer’s day with people meeting and lunching. Around the edge of the plaza is a raised wall, and into each section of it, on the top surface, is a number of large plaques, each containing a line of a poem, principally speaking of an opposition to war and violence in general. At the mid-point of the wall there is a most curious — and entirely appropriate — tomb to an un-known Roman child, whose murdered remains were found during construction, carefully removed to safety, and then re-buried in the same spot so that they continue their briefly interrupted internment. How apt, then, for a poem to be placed around them, speaking of violence to all people whether known and honoured by those who did so, or those who no longer are remembered yet whose deaths were just as needless.

Oddly, I can’t find anything about the poem or the child’s tomb anywhere, so I may be entirely wrong in all of the above political / pacifist connection-making.

Tomorrow, part iii: Leaving the Financial Centre before I’m nicked by the Security boys.