With Ink and a Surface to Write on

Give me pen and paper and I can use words to carve out new worlds or dig out narratives from the past trapped under traffic and tarmac. The potentially empty time of a bus journey becomes a chance to shape stories or engage in imaginary archaeological examination of London’s streets. The 436 heading towards Paddington an opportunity to capture the thrash of a new idea trying to break through or the instant when the 10,000 lights of Hyde Park’s temporary fairground glimpsed through the swirl of falling snow seems to be illuminated storm front of some alien invasion.

With the right tools to scratch, I can steal any part of the city for you. From malkuthian stabs of brutal neon in Little Lebananon to the troll dark of the Harrow Road Bridge when it acts as a portal to Machen’s Baghdad-on-the-Thames. With ink and a surface to write on, I can trap apple smoke genies as they escape from pavement shisha or record the boiling hiss as cold rain hits the glass of the lights embedded in the towpath.

No writer living in London should ever face a blank moment. Beyond the opportunities for the city to distract and entertain, it offers up a constant rush of stories and flashes for you to snatch like a Dickensian cartarista. As long as you avoid laziness, you can lift every word you need and find every gate into Sion whilst travelling from SE11 to W2.

Aerial Silk Showgirls and 10-foot Tall Porcelain Androids

This morning, dragon breath leaking from my lips, I walked hand-in-hand with my Lady Love along the canal. Wood smoke from our neighbours on the cut kissed the air, frost teased the cobbles. This might all sound somewhat chocolate box, but it qualifies as standard for this time of year in the Three Bridge Kingdom.

However, it has to be said that whist it is common to wend our rosey-cheeked way along the towpath as the city begins to wake, I do not usually do it wearing full black tie. The blame for such out of place ostentation lies in last night. Last night was an awards ceremony. This meant a Mayfair hotel, Dara Ó Briain, champagne, sea bass with a Pernod sauce, aerial silk showgirls and 10-foot tall porcelain androids wearing Venetian carnival masks.

Generally, I do not like award ceremonies. The constant forced mentions of corporate sponsors makes you ache for the blade, the table talk tends towards mind-crushingly dull and I never win. Yet surrounded by good Yorkshire company and with the Grosvenor House threatening to tumble into an episode of Doctor Who, enjoying myself was easy – despite the fact it looked as if the volto might have had laser weapons built into their black opal eye sockets.

An Ozymandias Moment

If some of my friends were members of the mafia rather than authors, I suspect I would end up playing the role of their consigliere. Of course it would be a consigliere in the Tom Hagen rather than the Silvio Dante mould. It has to be said, I am a lot better at wise counsel than executions.

While the prospect of a Collins crime family is thankfully remote, I often seem to end up handing out consilium to one of the big bosses of historical mystery. The twenty-two years I have known Andrew Collins have involved me following him into a serious of surreal scrapes and adventures. If I got an email from him tomorrow reading: ‘I have found the lost city of Irem and accidentally been heralded as Sheikh of the Tribe of a 1,000 Pillars. I seem to have kicked off an armed insurrection against Sultan of Oman's Armed Forces. Any thoughts on how to handle the press?’ I would not be surprised.

It was thanks to following the strange wake of Andy Collins and trying to provide advice that tonight, my Lady Love and I ended up enjoying Châteauneuf-du-Pape and crab mousse canapés in the Egyptian sculpture room of the British Museum. Trying hard not to spill wine or crumbs on the Statue Of Sacred Boat Of Mutemuia or lean too noticeably against Shabaka Stone, we were in the front line of the ambassadorial speeches and pomp put on for Dr. Zahi Hawass. However, it was not the speeches or notable guests that awed, but the ghosts of a culture existing outside of their time thanks to their possession of granite, gneiss and grandiorite

The weight of history in Egyptian sculpture room alone is immense. The temporal power of the pharaonic age relics forces you to confront the idea that any remains of 21st century England uncovered 30 centuries hence will cast much weaker shadows. It should be impossible for anyone to give a speech from below the colossal fragment of the bust Ramesses II without having an Ozymandias moment.

One thing I found myself in agreement with Dr. Hawass on during his speech was the untenable position of the Rosetta Stone. When the British ran wild, looting the world for their tawdry gratification, some of the globe’s most significant treasures ended up at the British Museum. The idea of wholesale repatriation by the Grand Dame of Great Russell Street of every iconic item from its collection remains unconvincing when it comes up against the primacy of ensuring such glorious survivors of the past remain safe and accessible. However, the Rosetta Stone should at the very least be time-shared between Egypt and the British Museum. The fact that it is not slurs not only Egypt’s ability to be a guardian of its past, but provides a violently stark reminder that Brits of Empire were amongst the worst thieving bastards ever seen.