I dozed on the bus with surreal images rising and falling in my mind of where I’d come from and what I did there. I get homesick very easily, I miss Glasgow even if I’m gone but a day. Ten hours in the same seat with the same people takes its toll but at least now the sun was coming up and the surrounding fields and rivers were illuminated yellow. Summer was latent and it was beginning in the south as it always did.
But suddenly, the passing world begins to change and morph: green becomes grey, starlets became pigeons, and fields became industry. I didn’t quite believe what was happening as the Megabus took the city in the early May-day sun. Recovering from my slumber, I yawn and try to gather my bearings. It started with blocks of concrete towers and I knew this was London. This nuance of the city was the grit and graffiti staircase I see on the TV. It was riotous back then, but everything was still in the morning light.
Now, on the motorway, we’re floating as a humanist’s master plan unfolds in spires, square rooms and the halo of the Wembley stadium. London was resolute: it was history and geography and politics sprawled out in square miles. I remember Glasgow, my favourite scene: the Kingston Bridge by night where the city spreads its wings to carry you over the Clyde; the buildings glow purple, blue, neon green and you could be anywhere in the world. I used to wait a little at the end of the day so I could get the express bus home and I could live this moment on the bridge. In April, rays of the evening sun would light up the hills somewhere in the distance.
The streets seem quaint as the city wakes up. The shopkeepers are unfolding the shutters; cyclists and runners seem to be the city’s only population. Through the trees I catch a glimpse of horses galloping in one of the city’s parks – I don’t know which one but I’m trying to guess; I’m trying to guess street names and recognise Underground stations I’d seen on the news or a film.
Turning a corner, I know this place. Westminster – it looks like it’s made of crackers and bread sticks. I’d seen it before, but never like this; on the news it seems so remote – it’s incredulous that I’m here. I want off this bus. I want to move in this city - to feel the pulse of its racing heart. I want to live: experience the grandeur of London’s institutions; the buzz in its core; the breathlessness when you look up from the foot of a sky scraper and you see the pinnacle of human endeavour.
Impatient and slightly nervous, I finally alight at Victoria bus station. It’s funny how all bus and train stations look the same in every city like it’s trying to tell you once you’ve arrived that it doesn’t matter where you’ve been because the journey hasn’t even begun yet.
When I’m on the streets they’re golden in the sun. It’s 6am and I’m shivering. I think that in Glasgow it’ll most likely be raining now. I long for home. There’s people shouting and police are putting up barriers for a protest later on that day. I’m surprised at how pristine everything looks. It’s funny how the buses are actually red. I know there’s so much more to come from the city at the centre of the world. London has so much more to show me and as I branch out I feel like I can make it work.
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