Finding Home

27 August 2009

I love this barmy place, after all.

Despite the football wars, the knives on the streets, the weather, CCTVs watching your every move and shake, train disruptions and constant train announcements, I love this place. It has life and vitality, Olympic angst, political intrigue, Lord Mandelson and the true sport of watching the slow political death of Gordon Brown. London's every neighbourhood is another sparkling city in and of itself. Sure, there are some hell holes, but find yourself a bit of heaven, for every one of those - like Greenwich Park, the Blackheath Market on Sundays, the Blackheath Village Library, if you can figure out the erratic hours.

No saintly Stephen Harpers or Iggies from Harvard here. No sight of the NHL or the CFL or the bloody Calgary Stampede. No dour Mansbridge on the BBC, we have George A. and Michelle H. and a host of lovely men and women to read the news, sometimes foucusing on the continuing death of Michael Jackson to exclusion of all else, including half the world being ground deeper and deeper into poverty and submission. But they read ever so well.

And we have Climate Camp right in our very own backyard in Blackheath. Probably the best thing to hit Blackheath since the birthing of the Blackheath Poetry Society. We have been to Climate Camp and see it as one of the many tiny actions that just might save the planet. Camp on! And we have poetry in this country. Rhymes of it, if you will, all over the Beeb (Bless you, Auntie, on this at least) and that's why I'm finding it so civilised just now - and just may stay a while, linger even. We'll see.

Perhaps my search for a home is coming to an end.

For now,

Blackheath Canuck

ps Okay, so everybody is blogging these days and I thought I would join in. There may be brilliant days. I'm hoping. But it's just a chance for a Canadian living in London to get it all off his chest. Enjoy!