Sleeper – Part two.
En route I make sure I speak to those who will notice, remember, and bear witness, so I focus not on the late-night revellers, still fuzzy-headed on their way home, but on the workers: four dayglo-clad street sweepers on the corner of Neal Street. I call in at the all-night kebab shop by Leicester Square,
“ A tea and a pitta bread please”
“Just pitta”
“Just pitta, thank you”
The young Muslim, shrugs, plates up a slice of dry pitta on a small china plate and brings it to my table with a mug of nut brown brew. I savour both as I consider the day ahead. Then I remember the favour colleagues are doing for me this weekend – two hack days to get learning software ready on time. This will benefit children all over the world – I am optimistically anxious about their progress, but know that to visit them might break the spell, so I decide to stay away from their office and concentrate instead on my own marathon.
I walk back to another University building and my fifth-floor office and take off walking boots and socks then delve in my bag for the red shoes. They seem to be missing, so I sort through some more, shuffling the government report, CDs and assorted papers before determining, that I will walk barefoot. For credibility purposes, I leave Shakespeare and the anthology of women writers visible on top of the bag as I make my way back down the staircase. I carry the bag with two hands. Already it seems too bulky and heavy for the task ahead.
I am losing track of time planning my next move and wandering through the streets, past workmen re-laying tarmac on the corner of Fitzroy Square. I share a joke with them.
I find myself outside the Indian YMCA and make myself at home on the sofas in the lobby. So as not to be recognised too early, I settle my face in the folds of my scarf so that only my eyes are visible. A service is underway in the basement and a steady stream of people, mostly African families, wend through the foyer and disappear down the stairs. Two young brothers play with the leaflets from the “London Calling ” stand before traipsing after their parents. A number of women sit alongside me on the sofas and it’s not clear what they are waiting for. In my mind they are here for an abortion, unlikely but the work of the church can be contradictory. A couple of times the receptionist comes over, “Could you please be quiet?” – what noise have I been making? No-one else is complaining. After some while I am ready to move on and I slip out through the double doors where a fine mist brushes against my skin.
I make my way through the drizzle to Charlotte Street and its eponymous hotel, where the commissionaire opens its door in welcome. I take a seat in the lobby and admire the low key opulence of its decor, the custom wallpaper and the large oriental statue of a black cat that stands guard at the entrance. Having rested for a few minutes I approach the reception desk and with aplomb, given my eccentric attire,
“Hello there, can you tell me what availability you have for tonight?”
It is after all a Red Letter day and deserving of the sort of treat that this establishment affords.
“We have several rooms available, would you like to make a reservation?”
I have been to the Charlotte Street Hotel now and again – cocktail nights with girlfriends or colleagues to celebrate special occasions but tonight’s prospect will dwarf those, I know. The hotel has the rooms, I have the money, but rather than tempt fate and reserve a room now, I float out happy at the prospect of a late booking.
I am beginning to get impatient that events are not unfolding as quickly as I’d thought – the bag is still heavy and my feet are sore from the barefoot walk in the rain. I quicken my pace and head for the day’s main event – St Patrick’s Day celebrations in Trafalgar Square – my moment of triumph in waiting.
Approaching the square I feel as though I’m losing my nerve and won’t carry it off, even though the prize is worth it. A hundred times over. Can you really save the world and get what you want for yourself into the bargain – the doubt of a Faustian deal still plagues me.
The square is filling up and an empty stage, set up next to the Canadian High Commission, attracts the younger elements. An unlikely rumour is circulating that U2 are planning a surprise gig. Amidst the crowd a young man is a mobile bar, wearing a green backpack from which he is siphoning Guinness into plastic glasses. A touch of the blarney and he serves me a complimentary half pint, which I down greedily.
Now I am ready.
(To be continued)