London Diaries
Drunk Before Noon
After spending a week here in London, I’ve come to realize how much I enjoy people watching. I might even go as far as to say it has become one of my favorite activities. I highly suggest that anyone who comes to London to visit, whatever the reason may be, should take some time to really look around at those who surround you. It’s entertaining to say the least.
Considering the plethora of markets visited, the variety of bars that were hopped to, and the long walks along the city streets, I’ve had ample opportunities to see all kinds of different people. A few days into the trip I began to write stories for the people who intrigued me the most. It started off rather simple, giving people names I deemed fitting and matching them up with a brief imaginative tale of where they may have been heading that day. However, as the days progressed, so did the stories.
As I leaned against a wall at Borough Market, munching away on another scrumptious duck confit wrap, I noticed a young man standing across the way. He was a tall, lean man with scruffy facial hair that matched the shaggy, un-kept mop on his head. For such a straggling looking dude, his outfit truly surprised me.
A royal blue, nicely fitted blazer rested upon his chest, accompanied by a light yellow speckled tie that was paired with a matching pair of ironed, slick dress pants. By his pointed, dark-brown leather shoes that screamed ‘business mogul’ laid a matching colored briefcase, alongside two empty IPA cans. At first I assumed the cans were there prior to his arrival, but as I continued to observe this mysterious man, I noticed him pull another can from his pocket, matching those that rested by his feet. With a small smile at himself, he cracked open the third can and brought it to his lips, taking a long swig before leaning against the brick wall and pulling out his phone. It was 11:30 in the morning, and at that moment I knew exactly who I wanted to write my story about for the day.
His name was Harrison Taylor, a 34-year-old Londonite, born in Leeds and city bound following his time at University. The past two years were rough for Harrison. Not only did he finally propose to his lovely girlfriend of four years (who said yes), he bought a brand new flat in the city, was promoted and given a hefty raise, and truly believed he was on top of the world. However, in the summer of 2017, things started to spiral out of control. His dear mother passed, leading Harrison into months of self-destruction and despair.
While his fiancée, Margaret, spent her days planning their beautiful wedding, Harrison was out and about into the wee hours of the night, drinking away his sorrows until the bartender would call him a taxi home. He’d come home belligerent, emotional, and angry, only to awake the mornings following with no recollection of the night before. This continued as the year progressed. Margaret started off supportive of Harrison and tried to help him, but as the months passed she became more and more fed up and upset by Harrison and his behavior. He didn’t want to change, he didn’t think he needed to, and all her efforts began to feel like a waste of time. Following one especially bad night in the fall, Harrison awoke the next morning to an empty bed, a missing fiancé, and a note that was topped with a sparkling diamond engagement ring, the same ring his father used to propose to his dead mother.
Jump back to today at Borough Market, Harrison wasn’t thinking of the dark past that had haunted him throughout 2018. It was finally a new year, and a new opportunity for Harrison to get his life back on track. Harrison’s resolution for the start of 2019 was to partake in dry January, which he believed would help him start off the year on the right foot. After seeing Margaret at a mutual friends New Year’s party (where he was sober), she agreed to meet with him for coffee at the market a couple weeks later. What Harrison thought was a chance for reconciliation, didn’t turn out as he expected.
As Margaret and Harrison sat across from one another, chatting away over their café americanos, Harrison couldn’t help but notice the dainty yet dazzling diamond that rested upon the hand he used to hold. He started to drink his coffee faster, wishing it was Irish instead. Margaret noticed Harrison’s change in demeanor, but neither of the two said anything. After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, Harrison cleared his throat and asked, “What’s his name?”
Margaret began to ramble on about an American man she met during a yoga retreat a year ago. Harrison zoned in and out of the conversation. He caught a few words, but they were enough: Carter, engaged, leaving, happy…goodbye – and she was gone; to Colorado or Wyoming or something.
Harrison sat in silence, replaying the conversation as he swirled the spoon around in his now cold coffee. As he looked aimlessly into the dark, cloudy mug in front of him, Harrison had one thing on his mind. He needed a drink, and he needed it now. His voice of reason? This wasn’t going to be a sad beer, but a ‘sittin’ n’ thinkin’ kind of beer. But 20 minutes later, on his third beer, Harrison was no longer thinking, he was just drinking. But this time, drinking with a smile.
After spending a week here in London, I’ve come to realize how much I enjoy people watching. I might even go as far as to say it has become one of my favorite activities. I highly suggest that anyone who comes to London to visit, whatever the reason may be, should take some time to really look around at those who surround you. It’s entertaining to say the least.
Considering the plethora of markets visited, the variety of bars that were hopped to, and the long walks along the city streets, I’ve had ample opportunities to see all kinds of different people. A few days into the trip I began to write stories for the people who intrigued me the most. It started off rather simple, giving people names I deemed fitting and matching them up with a brief imaginative tale of where they may have been heading that day. However, as the days progressed, so did the stories.
As I leaned against a wall at Borough Market, munching away on another scrumptious duck confit wrap, I noticed a young man standing across the way. He was a tall, lean man with scruffy facial hair that matched the shaggy, un-kept mop on his head. For such a straggling looking dude, his outfit truly surprised me.
A royal blue, nicely fitted blazer rested upon his chest, accompanied by a light yellow speckled tie that was paired with a matching pair of ironed, slick dress pants. By his pointed, dark-brown leather shoes that screamed ‘business mogul’ laid a matching colored briefcase, alongside two empty IPA cans. At first I assumed the cans were there prior to his arrival, but as I continued to observe this mysterious man, I noticed him pull another can from his pocket, matching those that rested by his feet. With a small smile at himself, he cracked open the third can and brought it to his lips, taking a long swig before leaning against the brick wall and pulling out his phone. It was 11:30 in the morning, and at that moment I knew exactly who I wanted to write my story about for the day.
His name was Harrison Taylor, a 34-year-old Londonite, born in Leeds and city bound following his time at University. The past two years were rough for Harrison. Not only did he finally propose to his lovely girlfriend of four years (who said yes), he bought a brand new flat in the city, was promoted and given a hefty raise, and truly believed he was on top of the world. However, in the summer of 2017, things started to spiral out of control. His dear mother passed, leading Harrison into months of self-destruction and despair.
While his fiancée, Margaret, spent her days planning their beautiful wedding, Harrison was out and about into the wee hours of the night, drinking away his sorrows until the bartender would call him a taxi home. He’d come home belligerent, emotional, and angry, only to awake the mornings following with no recollection of the night before. This continued as the year progressed. Margaret started off supportive of Harrison and tried to help him, but as the months passed she became more and more fed up and upset by Harrison and his behavior. He didn’t want to change, he didn’t think he needed to, and all her efforts began to feel like a waste of time. Following one especially bad night in the fall, Harrison awoke the next morning to an empty bed, a missing fiancé, and a note that was topped with a sparkling diamond engagement ring, the same ring his father used to propose to his dead mother.
Jump back to today at Borough Market, Harrison wasn’t thinking of the dark past that had haunted him throughout 2018. It was finally a new year, and a new opportunity for Harrison to get his life back on track. Harrison’s resolution for the start of 2019 was to partake in dry January, which he believed would help him start off the year on the right foot. After seeing Margaret at a mutual friends New Year’s party (where he was sober), she agreed to meet with him for coffee at the market a couple weeks later. What Harrison thought was a chance for reconciliation, didn’t turn out as he expected.
As Margaret and Harrison sat across from one another, chatting away over their café americanos, Harrison couldn’t help but notice the dainty yet dazzling diamond that rested upon the hand he used to hold. He started to drink his coffee faster, wishing it was Irish instead. Margaret noticed Harrison’s change in demeanor, but neither of the two said anything. After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, Harrison cleared his throat and asked, “What’s his name?”
Margaret began to ramble on about an American man she met during a yoga retreat a year ago. Harrison zoned in and out of the conversation. He caught a few words, but they were enough: Carter, engaged, leaving, happy…goodbye – and she was gone; to Colorado or Wyoming or something.
Harrison sat in silence, replaying the conversation as he swirled the spoon around in his now cold coffee. As he looked aimlessly into the dark, cloudy mug in front of him, Harrison had one thing on his mind. He needed a drink, and he needed it now. His voice of reason? This wasn’t going to be a sad beer, but a ‘sittin’ n’ thinkin’ kind of beer. But 20 minutes later, on his third beer, Harrison was no longer thinking, he was just drinking. But this time, drinking with a smile.
The Ghost of Alfie's Antiques
Gregory Huff was not an ordinary ghost. He didn’t haunt the premises that he’d known and loved when he was alive. In fact, he was far from home. But home had never been that important to Gregory. What was important to him were the things he filled it with, and what a better place to find those things than Alfie’s Antique Market.
Gregory was a collector of the finer things. He didn’t fancy the company of others, never started a family or cared to, and paid those around him to do his “dirty” work for him. He barely left his secluded home, 40 miles outside of the city walls of London. Gregory also didn’t trust a soul. After knowingly jimmying his parents out of everything they had before they passed, Gregory was well aware what people were capable of doing, as well as the extent they’d go to acquire a fortune. He had everything from fine silvers, to gold thrones. Gregory acquired ivory tusks, gems and jewels, taxidermy exotic animals, trinkets, goblets, furs of all kinds. He truly had everything in the world, everything but time. Because on one gloomy afternoon, Greg met his unfortunate demise.
Gregory died at the ripe age of 46 back in the late 1700s, all alone in his home, not to be found for months. Gregory was rotund, an elephant couldn’t shift the man. He once boasted of eating 24 pheasants. He would have gotten to 25 if the incompetent beater hadn’t gotten in the way of his shot. If not for the buttery coin that launched itself down his gullet, it wouldn’t have been much longer until his heart popped. As Gregory sat in his study that stormy day, he attempted to authenticate what he believed to be a solid gold coin, utilizing the classic technique he’d been using for years. Unfortunately, his greasy, buttered up sausage fingers were coated in the excess oils of his second breakfast of the day. With one quick slip, the coin lodged itself into his throat and that was where Gregory Huff’s story ended on this earth.
However, this was not the end of Gregory Huff in a different kind of world. His spirit lingered in his abandoned home for years as he watched his worldly possessions be carted off and sold to various vendors, families, collectors, and so on. He wanted to follow his goods, as those were the only thing he truly cared about, both dead and alive. However, Gregory was tied to the manor that he once used to fill with his collectables. He was stuck there sulking for centuries before the mansion was demolished. It was at this time that Gregory was finally freed from the shackles of his history and began to explore the world outside of what used to be his personal prison.
As he roamed the streets of London, Gregory found a particular little shop that he couldn’t help but feel drawn to. It was known was Alfie’s, a small antique market that consisted of four floors filled with endless artifacts of the past and vintage goods, some which Gregory used to have in his very own home. In a way, it seemed as though Gregory found a new home for himself, a home that was very much his in regards to what it was filled with.
Gregory has been at Alfie’s ever since, wandering down the aisles of fine things, taking his own inventory of his past possessions, and basking in his “riches”. He felt a deep resentment toward customers who came in and tried to buy his things, and turned into quite a petty trickster. When he wasn’t walking around or taking his inventory, Gregory would run around the shop and knock the finest of things off their shelves in hopes of being able to hide them in the nooks and crannies of the shop corridor.
The silver spoons that “accidentally” fall onto the floor in front of shoppers who browse through the vendors selections, or the slight jolt of a chair that may rest in a corner are not coincidental, nor are the creation of someone's imagination. These little things are the remnants of the ghost of Gregory Huff, always present, always watching, and always keeping an eye on his not so buried treasures.
Gregory Huff was not an ordinary ghost. He didn’t haunt the premises that he’d known and loved when he was alive. In fact, he was far from home. But home had never been that important to Gregory. What was important to him were the things he filled it with, and what a better place to find those things than Alfie’s Antique Market.
Gregory was a collector of the finer things. He didn’t fancy the company of others, never started a family or cared to, and paid those around him to do his “dirty” work for him. He barely left his secluded home, 40 miles outside of the city walls of London. Gregory also didn’t trust a soul. After knowingly jimmying his parents out of everything they had before they passed, Gregory was well aware what people were capable of doing, as well as the extent they’d go to acquire a fortune. He had everything from fine silvers, to gold thrones. Gregory acquired ivory tusks, gems and jewels, taxidermy exotic animals, trinkets, goblets, furs of all kinds. He truly had everything in the world, everything but time. Because on one gloomy afternoon, Greg met his unfortunate demise.
Gregory died at the ripe age of 46 back in the late 1700s, all alone in his home, not to be found for months. Gregory was rotund, an elephant couldn’t shift the man. He once boasted of eating 24 pheasants. He would have gotten to 25 if the incompetent beater hadn’t gotten in the way of his shot. If not for the buttery coin that launched itself down his gullet, it wouldn’t have been much longer until his heart popped. As Gregory sat in his study that stormy day, he attempted to authenticate what he believed to be a solid gold coin, utilizing the classic technique he’d been using for years. Unfortunately, his greasy, buttered up sausage fingers were coated in the excess oils of his second breakfast of the day. With one quick slip, the coin lodged itself into his throat and that was where Gregory Huff’s story ended on this earth.
However, this was not the end of Gregory Huff in a different kind of world. His spirit lingered in his abandoned home for years as he watched his worldly possessions be carted off and sold to various vendors, families, collectors, and so on. He wanted to follow his goods, as those were the only thing he truly cared about, both dead and alive. However, Gregory was tied to the manor that he once used to fill with his collectables. He was stuck there sulking for centuries before the mansion was demolished. It was at this time that Gregory was finally freed from the shackles of his history and began to explore the world outside of what used to be his personal prison.
As he roamed the streets of London, Gregory found a particular little shop that he couldn’t help but feel drawn to. It was known was Alfie’s, a small antique market that consisted of four floors filled with endless artifacts of the past and vintage goods, some which Gregory used to have in his very own home. In a way, it seemed as though Gregory found a new home for himself, a home that was very much his in regards to what it was filled with.
Gregory has been at Alfie’s ever since, wandering down the aisles of fine things, taking his own inventory of his past possessions, and basking in his “riches”. He felt a deep resentment toward customers who came in and tried to buy his things, and turned into quite a petty trickster. When he wasn’t walking around or taking his inventory, Gregory would run around the shop and knock the finest of things off their shelves in hopes of being able to hide them in the nooks and crannies of the shop corridor.
The silver spoons that “accidentally” fall onto the floor in front of shoppers who browse through the vendors selections, or the slight jolt of a chair that may rest in a corner are not coincidental, nor are the creation of someone's imagination. These little things are the remnants of the ghost of Gregory Huff, always present, always watching, and always keeping an eye on his not so buried treasures.