Journey Words: Claire Wigington Image: Danny Hall
Wake up. Hit snooze. Wake up. Hit snooze. Wake up. Have fear of being late AGAIN. Get out of bed. Wash (body), brush (teeth), comb (hair) Waste unnecessary minutes sticking cotton bud into ear whilst boyfriend moans from under the duvet to “stop sticking that cotton bud into your ear”. Stop when dribbling starts. Get dressed. Get bag. Get out. Walk down the high street. Head down on Central Line. Alight at Stratford for DLR services
to Crossharbour. More of the head down. Shuffle, scuttling across platforms, interweaving between anonymous faces of commuters trapped in TFL Hell. The grey, the dreary, the dead inside. All suited and booted and ready for another day in the office, in the markets. Rah rah rahing on their Crackberrys, all pink ties and shoes from Austin Reed. Jeez Louise, how can I have so much rage at this hour of the day? Bubbling up inside me like a chilli ragu on simmer. And then I see it. Oh great majesty – the Olympic village. So vast is the progress now on the Newham site that you can almost see ghosts of the
future sitting and waiting to support their homeland. Cleared away are the warehouses from an era now unknown. Wiped clean to be replaced by buildings in which man will race. Where children will cheer and a spirit of fair competition and equality to all men shall reign forth. Ah, my sweets ‘tis a beautiful sight. The curves of ‘swim’, the slopes of ‘ride’ and the simple grandeur of the stadium. How did it get here so fast? Shit, we’re actually going to get something done on time! Hurrah! Well done, us! I exhale deeply thinking of one world, one dream. Out of the window of the DLR on this humdrum day I feel inspired, inspired to share the spirit.