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<alt="The Map is not the territory">
Where famed St. Giles’s ancient Limits spread,
An inrail’d Column rears its lofty Head,
Here to sev’n Streets sev’n Dials count the Day,
And from each other catch the circling Ray.
Here oft the Peasant, with enquiring Face,
Bewilder’d, trudges on from Place to Place;
He dwells on ev’ry Sign with stupid Gaze,
Enters the narrow Alley’s doubtful Maze,
Trys ev’ry winding Court and Street in vain,
And doubles o’er his weary Steps again.
(Extract from John Gay’s Trivia: Or, the Art of Walking the Streets of London (1716). Book III)
Click the link below to start
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
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Inches from your feet, black cabs scuttle past like shiny beetles. They circumnavigate the roundabout in seconds before veering of into the maze of alleys, yards and streets which are collectively known as Seven Dials.
A couple of office workers are sitting next to you at the foot of the monument. They eat sushi from plastic supermarket packs and talk about reality TV. You sip your coffee from a cardboard cup and count the road junctions. There are seven in total, all leading from the monument in a spider web arrangement.
Are you headed
[[North]]
or
[[South]]
A flaccid, weather faded British flag hangs listlessly from its pole on the street corner that links Mercer St to Monmouth St. There is a hotel to your left and a couple of bland office blocks to your right. This section of the street is short and you are beginning to regret your choice of route until you come across an interesting shopfront.
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It reminds you of the book, The Valley of the dolls, a story about women, fame, uppers and downers. You walk inside the store, there are tatty sports tops being sold for £20.00 each.
The shop floor is sparsely decorated; there are music and marketing magazines on low tables next to a plain bookcase stacked with cult titles.
You don't recognise any of the bands that grace the magazine covers, but you do notice that they seem to be dressed in the same mashup of styles; hipster urban, hipster 50's pinup, hipster boho. All too often, in the quest to be everything, it all ends up as nothing. Grey goo is far from nourishing.
You leave.
At the end of Mercer St, there is a red brick Victorian church. You walk around the corner onto Shaftesbury Avenue. The words: ‘Soho Baptist Church, 1831’ are carved into the brickwork above the church’s entrance, but a modern sign directly below it indicates that the building is now the outreach centre for the Chinese Church in London.
You walk past a black street lamp which has a laminated public notice attached to it.
It’s a warning from the Metropolitan Police which states that you are currently standing in a 'dispersal zone.' There is a picture of a map which highlights a triangle of land which spreads from Shaftesbury Avenue to Leicester Square.
In this designated ‘zone’ the police have the right to disband any group of two or more people; if they believe that the group's conduct is antisocial.
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A couple of years ago, you saw some protesters dressed as bank robbers blocking shop the doorways on Oxford Street. They were waving anti austerity placards which demanded that Boots and Starbucks pay their Corporation tax. Corporations are antisocial. You rip the sign off its post and put it in your pocket.
This end of Shaftesbury Avenue is serene and well shaded; tall, heavily pollarded trees stand on each side of the road like spindly sentinels entombed in concrete. There is a manhole partially prized open and there is nobody around.
[[underground]]
or
[[overground]]
You turn onto Shelton St. and like a bee to pollen you find yourself crossing the road to look at the shop whose front is painted canary yellow. The shop sells rare antique prints and you hover on the doorstep.
Old maps and relics are like heroin to you; an expensive hobby which has left you overdrawn, condemned to eating packs of forty pence ramen noodles until payday, more times than you'd care to admit. You will return at the end of the month.
There’s an opulent looking private members bar at the end of the street; all of its windows are blacked out. A stout geezer with hairy forearms is ferrying boxes back and forth to his white van.
You catch a glimpse of chandeliers through the crack of the door as he carries a box of lemons inside. When he returns you ask him if you can take a proper look. He replies with a flat no and you carry straight on.
There is a troupe of dancers ahead of you, they are wearing neon pink sweatbands and Lycra bodysuits which make them look like extras for a 1980's music video. They turn right onto Langley St and the sound of Madonna's ‘Material Girl’ blasts out into the street.
Do you head towards the music?
[[yes]]
or
[[no]]
You climb down the manhole. You use your phone as a flash light.
At first, the tunnel is wide and modern but as you proceed it become narrower. You see a small door to you left, but it is locked. You carry on, but begin to regret your decision.
You shouldn't have come here on your own. You don't have a weapon to defend yourself. You hear footsteps ahead of you, so you decide to head back quietly, the footsteps quicken, and you begin to run.
Was it left or right, the tunnel looks unfamiliar.
You can here a sniggering noise in the distance, you start to run again.
[[Left]]
or
[[Right]]
You walk down the little alley that leads to the back of the cinema and head towards the tree line.
The Phoenix Gardens are sandwiched between St Giles’s churchyard and The Odeon.
At the garden’s gated entrance, a browbeaten street cleaner is standing next to the welcome sign, he lets out a small creaking sigh each time he reaches down to pick up a piece of rubbish. A small notice attached to the gate tells you that the garden has only just been reopened after a long stint of building work. Except for the cleaner, it’s empty.
A large black cat struts into view and loops around your feet as you enter.
The community garden is divided by crooked paths and circular beds of full bloom perennials; long stemmed flowers in pinks, yellows and violet. The ivy and weeds are slow trespassers, creeping over low brick borders. The absence of gardeners due to the building work has allowed the garden to flourish beyond its prescribed boundaries.
The narrow path ahead is part dirt, part crazy paving. You spend a few minutes reading quirky inscriptions on the various memorial benches that are tucked away at odd angles throughout the park:
‘For Sheila who always knew the hidden places.’
‘Sir Digby Jones takes time to smell the flowers.’
‘10000 greenfly equals 1 bluetit.’
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It's unusually hot today. You find a shaded corner bench and crack open the bottle of water from your bag. The black cat jumps up onto the seat next to you. Its left eye glints in the sun like a magnificent emerald. It’s a well fitting prosthetic, a custom green marble.
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The Cat darts off down the crooked path. It pauses midway to look back at you.
[[Do you follow it?]]
or
[[Don't be daft]]
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You arrive at Pineapple Dance Studios and watch a streetdance class through a huge double-width ground floor window. You cringe as the spiky haired instructor demonstrates the dance combos. You see the sign on the door, the class is "Eighties body poptastic." The people in the class applaud the cretin's performance, gel and sweat form a visible jizz crust on his forehead.
The group starts to rehearse their routine. You should look away and move along, but your feet are frozen to the floor. You watch in horror as the group of twenty something chubsters and drama school rejects from Hertfordshire move through the motions with the grace of newborn rhinos. They are having the time of their life, and they've never felt this way before.
You feel nauseaus and decide to go home. Sometimes, this city is hell.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
You snake back to the map shop. When you walk in, the shopkeeper Harrington becomes animated. He waits for the Japanese tourist to pay for the postcard of the tube map and leave before gently placing the vellum book on the counter.
He explains that it belonged to a private collector who didn't want it to go to auction and end up in the wrong hands.
You've spoken a few times before, he knows that you are a researcher in esoteric and mystical landscapes.
"Would you like to study it before I find a buyer. Of Course, I can't let you leave the shop with it, too valuable, but.. there is a small room upstairs with a desk that you could use, if it is of interest to you?
[[Go upstairs]]
or
[[Thanksbutnothanks]]
Harrington locks the shop door and turns the sign round which says "Shop closed, back in 15 minutes."
The back of the the shop leads to a steep crooked staircase. Harrington bounds up the three flights of stairs two at a time. he bounds. He looks like he is in his Eighties but he tackles the brisk climb like a boy of 15.
At the end of the corridor, there are two heavy wooden doors. One is a lavatory, the other is the map room. Harrington begins the process of unlocking the vaulted door with a series of large skeleton keys; one after the other, click, click click.
The room is light and decadent. Two large glass windows cover the width of the room. You peer down to the busy street below. In the room, the walls are shelved from floor to ceiling, some are open pidgeonholes with stacks of paper, others are padlocked.
There are security cameras in the corners of the room. Two huge mahogony draughtsmen desks are placed at opposite sides of the room, at Magnetic North and South, you know this because there is a large tiled compass mosaic in the centre of the room, inlaid into tiled floor.
Harrington says that the larger desk was his, but you can use the apprentice's desk. You ask where the apprentice is today?
"They never last."
He places the book onto the reading frame stand and rushes off to reopen the shop downstairs.
The first page is antiquated, illuminated, the word Lundunwic points to it being of Anglo Saxon origin.
You put on the gloves and turn the pages.
The rest of the book is a complete mismash, a sort of cartographical scrapbook.
In the margins small medieval beasts are entwined with hand drawn vines which have snatches of modern computer code.
[[Harrington is a madman! Time to go.]]
or
[[Carry on reading.]]
You are hungy, you decline his invitation and head to Neals Yard for something to eat.
You buy a juice and a salad from a yuppie girl who tells you about the vitamins in everything.
Your bill comes to £26.00
[[Eat in]]
or
[[Eat Out]]
This path is under construction.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
"Oiiiiiiiii, what the fuck are you doing down 'ere?"
Another man, in a high vis jacket, hardhat and flashlight steps out infront of you. The running footsteps behind you suddenly stop but the panting and sniggering does not.
The engineer grabs you by the arm.
"This is private property this is. I should call the police."
You apologise, and explain that you are a but a curious walker and didn't mean any harm.
He works for the telephone company. His name is Ger. He escorts you back to the entrance and tells you about some of the " weird fings that he has seen."
You tell him about the sniggering
"Do you work for the police or any other govermental agency or have a recording device on your person?"
You scoff and say no.
"Give me your hand."
He writes an odd symbol and a web address on the palm of your hand with a sharpie.
"Now, piss off before you get me into trouble."
You leave Seven Dials to check out the link at home.
On Neal St, you browse the numerous shoe boutiques until you reach the large Urban Outfitters store. A man is drawing peace symbols with chalk onto the pavement and the store’s security guard is eyeing him suspiciously. The chalk wielding man seems unsteady on his feet. He is wearing a brown leather waist coat over a white long sleeved kaftan shirt, aviator sunglasses, a matching dark brown leather fedora and Stetsons.
To the left of the hippy cowboy, there are two people carrying a 4ft shelf of shot glasses filled with ale. They are from a Belgian restaurant up the road and you sample a few micropints.
Oh no! The hippy cowboy is drunk.
As you walk past him, he shouts that he wants to see your purple underwear. Everybody stares at your trousers. You aren’t wearing purple underwear and what you are wearing isn’t on show. He becomes aggressive and lewd.
You lob the smoothie at him.
And run.
At the end of Tower St, a young man with flyers asks you if you would like a free haircut at the hairdresser’s academy. You politely decline after a terrible experience with a scissor happy trainee elsewhere. Instead, you turn onto Earlham St.
In 1966, Syd Barrett the lead singer and founding member of Pink Floyd lived at No.2 Earlham St in a small flat which no longer stands. During his time there, he wrote most of the songs that would later appear on the band’s first studio album. Back then, the area was a refuge for creatives with its cheap rents and proximity to the cultural hubs of Carnaby St and Soho.
Today, a discount music store stands next door to the building where Barrett penned some of the most critically acclaimed songs in British rock history. You go into the store and by a DVD for £3.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
This path is under construction.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
This path is under construction.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
You go home with the intention of completing a few dozen chapters of work. Instead, squander three hours of precious lifeforce by having a series of hollow interactions online. You go to bed early after half a bottle of vodka and a pot noodle.
You gather up your stuff and storm downstairs.
Are you having me on Harrington? The shop is empty and he smiles.
It isn't a hoax, if that is what you are insinuating. If I were you, I'd spend time with the document before rushing off. I'm quite sure that somebody with a little more patience would be fascinated with it.
[[Thanksbutnothanks]]
or
[[I'm sorry, I'll take another look]]
This path is under construction.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]
This path is under construction.
Back to the dials for now.
[[Seven Dials, Seven Days]]