There is an nasty virus spreading across London Town. You may not see it. It disguises itself well. It is hip, happening and the kids (young and old) are all signing up.
It has taken that beautiful antique table, the patinaed typewriter on the table and the rusty bicycle on the wall and sucked all the appeal out of them. You see this virus is quite the leech. Its sucks the beauty out of architecture, books, fashion, menus … the list is endless.
Taking key pieces of something and placing it perfectly opposite a different piece of something unrelated, but equally beautiful so that the juxtaposition between the two is perfect no matter how crappy the lens of the bright eyes tourist is.
The not so delicate, amazingly creative grunge gets replaced by the soulless manufactured grunge coated in just the perfect amount of scuffs.
And slowly my city rots. It rots as gallons of beard oil seep deep into its soil. It rots as the creativity washes away, pushed out to somewhere affordable.
Another boutique clothing store who’s single pair of vintage twead trousers carries a price tag that could provide the annual nourishment for the extended family of the miserably poor Turkish villager who’s hands created them. Another ethically sourced ingredient’d menu appears with words most good dictionaries would struggle to stomach. Another rockabilly girl parks her designer bicycle in a colour that the factory stopped producing back in the 50’s and sits down on an old school bench that has been repurposed by the restaurant owner handing her Canadian Arctic water. Another tear falls down my cheek as I sit on the bench opposite her in my new trousers and look down at the new menu.