As part of our second semester we had to visit various cultural and fashionable locations in London and write just 150 words. The short pieces could be anything we liked and so I decided to let my imagination run wild an create stories about the people I saw (or stalked, depending on how you look at it). Here are some of my favourites.

Portraits 

A collection of sketches of people in London

 

The East-End Artist

In The Book Club, a café that looks more like a school canteen that has only the cool-kids present, a mother and daughter enter. The daughter, a beanie wearing, baggy jeans inhabitant shows her mother to a table.

“This is nice,” says the mother. She has white-cropped hair and is a lot bigger than her daughter in size.

“Yeah, it’s cool,” the daughter replies, looking around sheepishly. She is obviously from around here, her mother’s accent and clothes prove otherwise.

They sit for a silent moment, looking around, in every direction except each others, until the mother asks “you hungry?”

“Starved!”

As they wait for their food to come, the daughter nervously gets out a folder full of print outs and begins to show her mother all her work. She is a talented painter. The mother looks down at the work and back up to her daughter, showing her a proud smile.

The Waitress 

It was dreary and disserted, so I found cover in a top-level café. I was the only patron. “I’ll have a latte and a cookie,” I said to the waitress as she began making my coffee automatically. The glazed look in her eye made me realise I was the only customer they have had today. I took my drink and my wrapped chocolate treat and sat on one of the wooden benches near the back, took out my Vanity Fair and began to read, silently observing the waitress.

She stared out into the clouded sky, counting the raindrops to pass the time.  Footsteps in the distance caused her to twitch, her fingers trembled in anticipation of something to do. But no one came. Back to her seat she went, continuing to stare out onto the Shoreditch High Street view. Ten minutes passed, and still no one entered. Boxpark is not the place to venture out to on such a rainy day.

The Girl With The Phillip Lim Bag 

I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It’s leather looked so soft, even from a distance. The camel and black 31 Hour Two-Tone Tote that I had been lusting after for months was being paraded through Harvey Nichols by someone so undeserving. Possibly she had stolen it from her mother’s wardrobe, maybe it was a present from a distant relative, either way this blonde girl could not have been one day over the age of 11. She couldn’t possibly know that its simplicity is its beauty, that it should be cradled – not dangled and swung about as the girl was doing. She might not even know who 3.1 Phillip Lim is as a designer.

I followed her with my eyes as she passed me, completely unaware of my jealousy. I wanted to grab the bag and run away. It’s times like this when you realise something’s are just really unfair.

The Man With Great Style

We were making our way into London, taking the Overground straight to Shoreditch High Street. Never before taking this kind of transportation, I was intrigued. Eager. Like a three year old child’s first time on the bus. Continuously looking around, I scanned the commuters’ ensembles, assuming to find them of the hipster variety. I was a little disappointed.

One outfit that I was drawn to looked smart, but comfortable; chic, but a little rough around the edges. The man had red suede boat shoes on, a crisp white shirt tucked into khaki chinos, rolled up to a little above the ankle, with a light navy blazer. I loved the colour blocking and the baggy silhouette it was giving him. To top it off he had given himself a far left parting and slicked back the rest, for a very classic look.

“The outfit’s cool, isn’t it?” I said.

“He looks fat.” Sometimes boys just don’t get it.

The Art Student

Sometimes you just can’t help but stare at people. This girl had that affect on me.

She sat opposite a Roy Lichtenstein titled ‘Whaam!’ and was glancing up and down from her page, scribbling with a pencil. Every few minutes she would have to move her limp brown hair from her face with an annoyed finger.

She looked like a typical art student with her oversized creased shirt, black patent Dr. Marten’s boots, dirty jeans and geek-chic glasses, but something seemed different about her and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. She had an enigmatic aura that surrounded her, you could tell that she was kind, friendly, personable and I wanted to walk up to her as if we had been friends for years and start talking about Lichtenstein versus Warhol. But suddenly she stood and walked away. I guess that friendship and artistic debate would only ever occur in my head.

The Old Couple

She lent on him for support, and he, his expensive looking walking stick. Each garment they wore oozed wealth and so did their groomed complexions. Each piece was carefully selected, not just for warmth or comfort, but for style and presence. Two things money can certainly help you buy.

Full from their afternoon tea, they walked down Piccadilly in silence, content just to be in each other’s company. Strolling slowing, as if they had nowhere to go, they treated the tourists and Londoners like a passing fly. Not noticing anything around them, they were the only two that existed in their own little world.

After a few paces, he glanced down at her and you could see the love in his eyes as he smiled with the biggest grin. One can only wish to look that happy at such an age.