by Duncan Johnstone

Created on: June 16, 2007

Above the Archway a wall of the former workhouse juts out into Highgate Hill. The building is now part of the Whittington hospital, named after the famous Dick who heard church bells telling him to turn again', took his cat, went back down the hill and became Mayor of London three times. On this wall a life-size graffiti of a man in prison uniform hitchhikes the city bound traffic. He holds a sign to his chest that reads Anywhere'.

According to myth the streets of London are paved with gold' and for the lucky few they really are. That gold is transmuted out of the blood of human beings. As if to commemorate all that blood, towards the end of the year on certain evenings the sky goes red from horizon to horizon. Londoners look around and experience a moment of vanity. In a flash nobody is transformed into everybody and thinks, "Isn't this the greatest city in the world?" This annual incandescence usually takes place at about half past three on a December afternoon.

So half past three on this afternoon evokes a series of flashbacks to other half past threes on other December afternoons. A moment of beauty reveals my fate completely. I hurry past anti-Whittington, trying to remain invisible and wrapping my coat around my chest against the cold wind. A labyrinth within which all possible choices are foreseen extends as far as my imagination can conceive in every direction. On the corner two young black men kiss their teeth and spit, as if to express their disapproval at the continued existence of white men. My eyes scan corners and peer into areas of darkness, my ears alert for pursuing footsteps.

The real Richard Whittington came to London in about 1370. He was the third son of Sir William Whittington, a Gloucestershire landowner. Richard became a successful mercer, the ancient term for a dealer in fabrics. This brought him into contact with the Court and in due course he lent' money to the King. In 1392 when Richard II stripped London of its liberties he imposed Whittington as Mayor.

A feral fox slips silently down my street. His dark socks match the tip of his tail. I reach my flat and lock the front door behind me.

My flat used to be comfortable. When I first moved in I took a great deal of care about the fixtures and fittings. I made sure they were tasteful and colour coordinated. I envisaged an oasis of civilization. I had carpets fitted. In the bathroom I hung an enormous mirror. I had a party. As the years passed I realized that the sun would never illuminate

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