Feb. 14th - PS: I Love You London

What price love?

I went into central London today, Valentine’s Day, looking for love. I found it.

Not that I am loveless – Liz gave me a good morning kiss this very a.m., though the bunch of roses and box of chocolates failed to materialise, from either of us. In fact neither of us mentioned Valentine’s Day, and it wasn’t until Facebook wished me ‘Happy Valentine’s Day Mike!’ (the exclamation mark is theirs) a short time later that I realised it was indeed 14 February.

The postie came and went, and once again (as happens every year) all my Valentine’s cards from secret lovers had been misdirected and delivered to someone else. It’s okay, I’m used to it now. My fault for moving house so often, I’m sure that’s the reason. Must be. Sigh.

Anyway, with an appointment for a long-overdue catch-up coffee in Soho (28 years overdue in fact) I set off into London. I looked for love on the tube on the way to Tottenham Court Road, but didn’t see any snuggling, canoodling or soppy kissing. All I discovered was a discarded Metro newspaper (I use

Oh pur-lease!!

the term loosely) in which there was a special ‘Rush-Hour Crush’ double-page-spread featuring anonymous commuters who go by such endearing noms-de-plume as ‘Suited Guy’, ‘Petite Girl With Olive Skin’, and ‘Dazed Cyclist’, all declaring their adoration for fellow commuters. Or female commuters, depending.

I searched in vain for a message saying, ‘Gorgeous mature blogger with tightly-furled umbrella, trendy beard and steely-blue eyes, you looked at me and smiled. Fancy a wine or two?’

On the other hand I didn’t see any hate on the tube either, so maybe the absence of hate is actually love. Or love, actually. See what I did there? (Yes – don’t overdo it – Ed.)

I did however stumble across love in Soho Square Gardens, where someone had thoughtfully placed a sprig of leaves and berries in the hands of Charles II’s statue. He remained stony-faced, but perhaps the Merry Monarch felt the love somewhere deep down in his marble heart.

On such a grey and chilly day I didn’t feel the need to sit on any of the numerous park benches in the wintry square, but I discovered that some of these also bore declarations of love. On many there are plaques, inscribed to the memory of various people, many of whom seemed to have had a deep association with Soho Square and worked or lived nearby. Jamie Simpson for example, who ‘had a smiling face for a loving race, he always loved to chill in this place’. Or Andy Cooper, who is missed more and more each day; Rest in peace gorgeous’.

R.I.P Kirsty

And there was one who was loved by thousands, if not millions, the singer Kirsty MacColl. Perhaps best remembered for her verbal duel with Shane MacGowan of The Pogues in the Christmas ballad Fairytale of New York, MacColl was killed by a speedboat while swimming off Mexico eighteen years ago. She was certainly loved by the music industry, and sang with many of the greats including the Rolling Stones, Talking Heads, Robert Plant and Van Morrison. I sat on her memorial bench for a moment – I’d loved her voice also.

No love for love songs...

However, love wasn’t all around, as I found when I read the park sign at the entrance. This clearly shows that the park’s management have absolutely no love for dogs, loud music or busking, alcohol, cycling, pigeon or squirrel feeding, skateboarding, rollerblading or ball games. Although they will tolerate you putting your litter in a bin, and presumably quiet contemplation of former loved ones is okay too.

I met up with my ex-work colleague from New Zealand and we caught up on almost thirty years of lost time. He told me how he’d found love and taken advantage of the relatively liberal laws in New Zealand to join his partner in a civil union, and then two years later went back and formalised it in a proper marriage. He and his husband, I learned on this Valentine’s Day, had found love and had had it officially approved.

I fell in love too, with the place where we met for coffee, which was Soho House in Greek Street, his private members’ club. Hard not to fall for endless beautifully decorated rooms, fine dining restaurant, swanky circular bar, plush leather seating, and a roof terrace undergoing a spruce-up in time for summer (whichever day that is this year).

On my way back afterwards I nipped in to my preferred house of fashion – Primark – where I discovered a man who had fallen in love with two pairs of jeans which he’d stuffed into a backpack. Unfortunately he had neglected to pay for them and was being pursued by two burly security guards, who I’m sure would have loved to have caught him.

My search for amour continued on the way home on this Valentine’s Day, named by the way after two men both called Valentine, who were executed by Emperor Claudius II in the third century AD on February 14, but in different years.
But it was Chaucer and others in the 18^th and 19^th centuries who began the convention of bestowing gifts, flowers and personal messages of love.

Entering Tottenham Court Road station my quest for love soared when I found that all the ticket barriers for the Northern Line were closed, and instead of showing green arrows instead displayed red crosses. To me these looked like a row of kisses, but maybe I’m just a romantic old fool. (‘Romantic old fool at Tottenham tube, I saw you smile at the kisses. Fancy a drink?’)

And as I emerged finally from Stockwell Tube Station the flower stall was still doing a brisk trade, with roses prominent. A man bought a single bloom and took it into the nearby Sainsbury’s. I hoped perhaps he had a crush on the checkout girl, but, reluctant to intrude, I didn’t follow and never got to see what happened. 

Instead I headed home, where my new love was waiting. Oh, didn’t I mention it? I’m absolutely loving watching the winter Olympics!