‘Excuse me, what’s your problem?’
Gobsmacked, I froze. My smile transformed into a slack-jawed open mouth of shock. I’d not felt shame or embarrassment like it.
That was the reaction I got when I simply smiled at a handsome man sitting opposite me on the Overground. My face flushed red.
That was the first time I knew London was ‘different’ to anywhere I’d ever visited, or lived.
Five years ago, when I first moved to the Big Smoke (for work, what else?), I was naïve. A Geordie, I quickly went from chatting freely to the person sitting next to me on the bus, to staring only at my feet.
Always in a rush, refusing to make eye contact with, or speak to, anyone. I became like everybody else – ignoring everything and everyone.
London can be an awful place, can’t it? It sucks the very humanity out of you. Morals, manners and unique thinking doesn’t exist as you become part of a fluid, sprawling mass of sheep in suits and dirty trainers. Don’t even get me started on being perpetually bankrupt from rent and £7 pints, either.
It replaces child-like optimism, joy and wishful thinking with anger, disdain and resentment. It’s why, last month, I left. For good.
For a long time, I found London thrilling.
Here I was, in the capital city. Living what I thought was (and everyone told me was) ‘the dream’ in a great job, hundreds of miles from home.
I had thousands of world-class restaurants, bars, breweries, gigs, theatre shows and just about anything you could dream of at my fingertips. In my eyes, I’d ‘made it’.
I felt greedy with excitement, running on adrenaline – at first.
But London changes you, and the city very quickly turned me into a different person. A shadow of my former polite, kind, bubbly self – something I’ve only realised after leaving for the chillier climes of Edinburgh.
I remember a friend in London admitting that he had become infuriated when he saw an exasperated mother with a buggy travelling at rush hour on the Tube. He was livid that they had decided to travel at that time, taking up yet more space when he had to get to work.
After he edged his way in front of her – not making eye contact or offering any help – he felt mortified at his own behaviour. What made him more important than them? A mother and her newborn?
I’ve felt the same before. Grimaced at the sound of a crying baby. Knew the fury of seeing parents with buggies or people with luggage on the platform; people with backpacks and maps in the middle of a busy London street looking lost. Walking too slowly, as if they were a hindrance to me. An annoyance, an inconvenience.
I felt entitled. Important.
After leaving London, it’s made me realise that nothing – including yourself – is that important.
Nothing is worth sacrificing your very morals for, at the expense of yours or someone else’s wellbeing. Not your spin class, not work, not overpriced cocktails at a ‘hidden gem’ with friends, not your morning coffee, joining the queue for brunch, your underground rave, not anything. That thing you have to get to right now? Not worth it.
Life is better, more freeing, when it’s taken slowly.
Don’t get me wrong, I have some incredible memories of London. While it’s a selfish city, I lived out my late twenties staying up until the early hours with my best friends; moved in with my now-husband for the first time; went to unforgettable concerts and festivals. I’ve cried at theatre shows, and groaned with heady pleasure over good beer and phenomenal food. It’s addictive.
But it comes with its dark side. It’s the place where I was sexually assaulted, harrassed and undermined by men on the regular, too – and people ignored it, just like I had with them.
In London, I feel like women’s safety isn’t paramount. I was often told by menacing strangers on the Tube, bus and my own street – day and night – that they’d rape me, stab me or shoot me.
The public? They ignored it all. Looking at the ground as they scuttled on by, too embarrassed, busy or important to intervene.
I’m not naïve enough to think that women are ever truly safe, but London breeds toxicity – and it saturates people. Thankfully, I’ve not felt fear like it since leaving.
Finally, after moving away to Edinburgh, I feel safe. Free. Content, almost relieved. I’m finally looking up, without the weight of the capital on my shoulders, and life is so much better. I feel like I can breathe again (and it’s not just because of the pollution).
Outside of London, my faith in humanity is slowly returning, too. People pick up that receipt you dropped in a hurry, tell you that you have loo roll on your shoe; that your dress isn’t fastened up properly or offer to help if you just need plain old help. People actually care.
Living in London isn’t living – it’s existing. Perpetually at the end of your tether.
London is the centre of the universe for people who have decided to move there but, from the outside, it’s a little sad that it’s become a cesspit of snobs with tunnel vision.
The Big Smoke? More like the big sham. It’s time to put the fire out for good.
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