Gland II. London

Part 2. London

In 2091, famously, on the steps of St. Paul’s Cathedral, a hundred thousand Londoners squirmed, clawed and popped away their final hours. The sound of a parotid gland rupturing, for those of you that don’t know, is somewhere between the sound of a chef tenderising a fillet steak and the noise a balloon makes when you let the air out. It has a spray radius of four to five metres. I feel sorry for the Cathedral’s janitor.

Nowadays, the only sound is the distant hum of the air-reconditioning units. And the only mess is the badly drawn sky they’ve painted on to the roof of the gargantuam dome that dwarfs that of London’s premiere place of worship. There are four such oxygenated domes in London – each housing their own important landmark: St Paul’s, Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace and a corner of Kew Gardens. The London Tour – on a bright-red air-tight double-decker bus! –stops at each of the four sights to allow you to get out and explore a little.

Far more interesting than “the sights”, however, is the journey through the meandering streets – which are worth the fee alone. Through Hackney’s peculiar mix of gleaming and grimy, past the City’s archaic “skyscrapers” and on, along the river, passing grand law courts, parliaments, schools – buildings that have remained unchanged for hundreds of years.

Most of the remaining Londoners walk around with their arms raised out wide as if fitting for a suit. You can see the aubergine-shaped swellings in their trousers. The residents who still live here, and are still alive, are supported by a great deal of aid from the Red Cross, partly – I suspect – because, over two hundred years ago, the organisation was founded in Europe. For this reason, Londoners are mostly overweight and wearing last season’s catwalk fashion – hand-me-downs from the wealthy districts of Aio and Esba – albeit with holes cut in the armpits and groin.

Despite the wide-spread availability of low-cost anti-inflammatory drugs, they still only serve to slow down the infection. So inevitably, there are casualties – and they have grown no less dramatic. A modernist slash of puss across a bus stop signposts a recent fatality. And later, as we pass the Natural History Museum (appropriately) a crowd gathers to watch an elderly woman explode on the lawns. From behind our bus’s triple-sealed plexi-glass, these scenes feel distant – as though I’m watching on TV. And this is the problem with visiting London. I have no sense of what a local person sounds like, thinks of or believes in. It’s pure freak-show – watching from behind a one-way mirror.

Even the large memorial in front of Buckingham Palace fails to tickle the blackened organ I sometimes call my heart. A deep, smoothed-marble crater does create a sense of horror – a kind of texture vertigo – but I’m not sure I can attach this sensation to what I know about England’s recent past.

I’m looking forward to getting out of the capital and back into a more tangible environment – so I can feel like I’m actually in this country rather than hovering just above it. Our chirpy tour guide – Gerald! – informs me that an average lungful of London air contains enough bacteria to contaminate the entire eastern arm of the galaxy. Gerald tells us that medical science has shown that glandular fever is one of the few conditions that is not just uncured, but is definitively incurable – an accolade it shares with only GLD and sceptosyphillis.

All of which leaves me feeling guilty and happy to be heading up the empty ten lane motorway toward the sea.

Pim Tandor will be reporting from Britain for the next four weeks. Next week: West Wales. Flights to Ely, England run once a week from Aio and twice monthly from Lis. A guide is essential and can be arranged in advance.