The Compressor of London

The streets empty on Saturdays and Sundays on Charlotte Street. Today I woke up, around 8 it must have been, a Saturday not predicting the sun which would wake up a bit later, with the beautiful noise of the city: some road-work under my window. My street, you see, is ever so busy during weekdays it cannot afford any beauty work to be done during its zebra-crossing schedule orange lights flashing passers by running, morning coffee travelling on the polluted supposedly air.. but the air does not smell here... The air smells of nothing.. smells of what you make of it... and why I am still here ? Why is my mood so accepting to the morning annoyance which ruined my beauty sleep, the sleep I look forward to so much during the week?
Can I call London a garden? Will all these people who do not like it let me do so? Do I need a permission? We are all here who live here growing under the wing of the London wind, Fitzrovia sun cracks through corners of streets of motorbikers with the leather jackets smiling at you making your day, businessmen in their black suits buying their lunch and staring at the flowers by the cash tills... Oh and the underground.. that some people find claustrophobic... I consider it a ten to fifteen minute group therapy.. all of us there sitting together, enclosed with no escape from each other's glances,,, working up our imagination to discover what stop that black girl rapping will get off and where this bold black-glassed man will fly to reading his book about Barcelona.... London
you might call it impersonal... you could easily... but you know why? because we are all each other's person... we do not know... we might not speak to each other .... but we are all together.... moi from Greece.... another is from France... another is English another is my flatmate from Bahrain... we are all growing here.. flourishing in the climate of England isnt that miraculous?
Have you seen a more exotic garden?
I am watered and water it every day...