Events
I’m a Tourist - Brought to you by James Wormald -
A common phenomena of city life (in particular of London City life, and I presume life in other cities with a big tourist trade), is a complete disregard breaching on ignorance, of all tourist activities. It’s strange. You’d assume a place attractive to tourists for one reason or another, would become similarly attractive to you, a resident, for the same reasons. You would partake in common tourist activities, if only less frequently, and once those activities were exhausted, normal life would resume. Understandable then that a typical resident could not be time and time again, seduced by the same museums and old buildings.
Yet it doesn’t even start off like this. Tourist activities are not only available to those in temporary digs. These things open on weekends, they don’t require a foreign passport, in fact many seemingly do all they can not to appeal to any tourists at all. Everything appearing only in English, along with such absurdly complicated rules and procedures that only a native Englishman (or Englishlady) could get past the front gate.
The only way to experience London’s tourist adventure is by doing it with an actual bona fide tourist. This past weekend was my mother’s birthday, and as a treat to herself, she sent herself packing down to London town for the weekend. It being my job to show her the ropes of my adopted hometown, I revelled in the chance to become a loudmouth, map reading, camera touting, tube meandering, tea-towel with a map of the underground on it buying tourist.
Being a tourist in London. Quite an easy job you could fairly assume. Seeing as I currently live in London, and spend most of my time in it already, it should be easy right? Well no. If I were properly on holiday, I’d have no end of places to pick up tourist leaflets full of shows, museums, events, festivals and such. But I don’t live in a city centre hotel, nor in a travel agent’s, or a tourist office. I spend all my time either in my house, at work, or in the pub. If she wanted to know where to get a good pint, I’d be only too happy to oblige, but anything beyond that and I’m stumped. It’s 12 steps trickier if you consider the fact I had to push and nag pretty hard just to get her excited about doing anything other than sitting in my room and reading her book. It’s like living with a fucking moody teenager!
Thankfully I managed to drag her out of the house without too much fuss on the promise she’d enjoy herself, just after midday, the second day. After a short birthday present shopping trip around central… we quickly got into Regent’s Park to enjoy the surprising sunshine. Regent certainly does make a good park I muse to myself as I wander up and down colourful posy lined pathways, and wide, stretching playing fields. The boating lake always offers a tranquil afternoon of relaxation and contemplation. Sunshine along with colourful surroundings always puts you in a good mood. What you choose to do with it is up to you, whether you fall asleep on the grass, dreaming of buttercup fields, fuelled by the ‘beauty of the world’. Or if you prefer weekend dad spotting, and stalking the swans just in case they go ahead and break little Haydon’s arm. Either way, the park has it all!
After a day walking a similar distance to the Mars Rover’s total mileage my feet were beginning to crumble, so I shudder to think what my (not 25 anymore) mother’s socks were forced to endure. I’m sure it came with more than a little relief, when I halted the torture and suggested we head home.
* * * * *
Second day, and after another morning of sitting around waiting for the tide to change or something, we left the house. Then returned after 30 seconds as she was wearing the wrong type of trousers. After changing into the correct type of (although incredibly similar) trousers, I was given the all clear, and we left. Again.
For the past few months, I’d had the strange hankering to visit the London Aquarium. It’s been so long since I’ve been to any kind of aquarium, that although I definitely have been to one, and to that point, seen live fish before, I couldn’t recall. The idea of seeing some fish floating about, seemed strangely and achingly fascinating to me. Seeing the fish, most of which offer the kind of gorgeous shapes, colours and patterns only natural selection seems to provide was one thing, but the combined colours and light of their habitat became so insanely beautiful, it’s a mystery how I ever forgot the experience in the first place.
I’m not going to sit here and just list all the different types of fish and what their names were… lots. I will however sadly mention two of the fish I was looking forward to seeing but didn’t, the Blowfish, and the Octopus. The Octopus was apparently new to his tank, had been busy building his new home and was very tired, so was often sleeping. On top of this he was shy (this is what the sign next to his tank said), basically you’ve got fuck all chance of seeing him. Somehow, even without the sight, just the thought of a little worn out, shy octopus, curled up asleep inside his new home was by far cute enough to overshadow my disappointment.
There weren’t any Blowfish at all! None! Perhaps I missed them, but I was looking out for them and everything. The least they could of done was get an empty tank and make up some bullshit story about a shy blowfish, “He’s just won the 100m gold on his sports day at school, so he’s having a little rest.”
Things I learned my weekend of tourism: London has a huge multi-cultural society amongst its residents as well as the tourists. But British tourists are by far and away the best in the world. I came to this realisation stood near the crab tank, overhearing this gem:
Weekend Dad: “Aww look Luca, it’s a cute little crab. Look can you see him? There in his little house.”
Luca: “No it’s shit. This is shit. Where are the sharks, I wanna see the fukkin’ sharks!”
Luca then runs off around the corner and I thank the wonderful recession for forcing Weekend Dad into the London Aquarium.