The unbearable lightness of heaviness (or something like that)
I expect the inertia-gaining upward motion as soon as the lift starts ascending. I’m supposed to feel heavy momentarily. But no, nothing happens. On top of that, we make it to the 35th floor in a few seconds.
The doors open to the Sky Garden, located on the top floor of the Fernchurch Building, otherwise known as the “Walkie Talkie”.
I’ve long had reservations about the Walkie Talkie, the Cheese Grater, the Gherkin, and almost all the new high-rises in the city. In my opinion, they don’t add much to the beauty of a place so well steeped in history. I like the London of narrow streets and local markets. This latest architecture-crazy iteration is business-powered and luxury-driven, with little respect for long-established communities.
The Sky Garden is a good example. We turn up on a wan afternoon. Low, unbroken clouds stop whatever sparse sunlight from trying to break through. Despite this, the building is full. Families amble up and down the stairs. Couples pose for photos. Insta and TikTok influencers are everywhere, like hard-working ants, putting in an overtime shift.
The garden itself doesn’t amount to much. Its green doesn’t look lush, more like a muted lime. Anyway most of us are not looking in, at the plants, but out, at the city.
With a 360 degree-view of London’s skyline, there’s plenty to see. By chance I find myself facing south. I wonder if on a clear day, I would be able to see the abode of one of my favourite writers on Medium, Michelle Scorziello, in Croydon. From my vantage point I’d probably see Michelle handing a mug of builder’s tea to the plumber who’s come to fix her boiler. Suddenly, the monster rumbles back to life (the boiler, not the plumber). All’s well that ends well.
I turn around and look north. I know it’s my patch, but it looks dull. At least in this light. First I’m confronted by the monstrosity of the Leadenhall Building, otherwise known as the Cheese Grater. Further up, looking northwest, I spot the Barbican’s three high-rises. Although not keen on them either, at least they serve a better purpose. Inside the complex is the Barbican Arts Centre, for my money one of London’s better cultural venues.
It’s when I turn west first and east after, that things get interesting. The Thames snakes along, dividing the city into two. Hard to believe that the river starts hundreds of miles away, in a place I was close to last Christmas, Trewsbury Head, in Gloucestershire. It, then, carries on for almost 215 miles, until it ends in Essex.
Still Thames-related is the fact that one of the reasons why west London has been better-off than the east historically is because of the wind. The direction of it, specifically. Most of the time the wind blows from the west or southwest. In the old days as London’s docks expanded and the Thames became one of the more important trade routes, rich residents decided to up sticks and move west, thus escaping the smells and fumes from the industrial estates.
Our time is up. We board the lift again. I expect that woozy, weightless feeling we get when going down. But nothing happens. Instead, we’re back on the ground floor in mere seconds. I’ve seen the city (my city) from above, but now it’s time to smell it and to feel it up close. Even if some of it still carries the smell of the docks.
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