The Career Woman

The Career Woman

As I sat heavily on the low wall, in London's Leicester Square, I
removed my shoes and gently massaged my aching feet. The blisters,
accumulated as a result of being on my feet all day, were irritating
me. Out of the corner of my eye, I became aware of a few people staring
in my direction as I took pleasure in vigorously rubbing my tender
toes. Blatant bad manners no longer seemed peculiar to me, after
spending so many years in this unforgiving city. I didn't care. It was
a sticky, humid evening and after all, who was I to deny my feet their
bit of pleasure after a hard day's work? Noticing that my stockings had
developed holes in the toes during the day, I groaned at yet another
thing to go wrong. It sometimes seemed as though my entire life was run
by the laws of Murphy.

Stampeding hordes of people, each with their own vital places to go,
rushed passed me as I continued my welcome rest on the graffitied wall.
Advertising types headed towards Soho, shouting into their latest
pocket sized mobile phones. Kitten-heeled twenty somethings teetered
towards All Bar One, having changed from their office outfits into
something more flimsy, in preparation to flirt with whoever would buy
them a drink. Touts holding placards outside the cinemas each shouted
their wares, "Student discounts, free popcorn, come in, come in."

Yet here I was, with no one special to meet, nowhere in particular to
go. Instead I was sitting on a wall on a Friday night contemplating how
I had managed to come so far from where I had intended to be. Quite
accidentally, I had ended up in one of the worlds most bustling,
vibrant cities. I was a partner in the city's strong marriage of
poverty and plenty. I observed the paradoxes in a city where thousands
of people pushed and shoved their way through grimy streets and
alleyways to their high-tech offices. Absorbed in their own complex
lives, most Londoners adhered to the fashions of the day, while,
consciences unaffected, they scurried past youngsters, who were little
more than children, settling down for the night in a cardboard
box.

When I was a small girl, I had wanted to be a ballerina. I was going to
launch myself with an exotic Russian sounding name and twirl and
arabesque to the delight of my awed audience. Remembering this, I
became envious of the dubious mime artist that had set up in front of
me, donning a harlequin outfit and miming to some crackling tune on his
ghetto blaster. Here was someone to be admired, I thought. They were
using their talents, not deteriorating at a desk, waiting to retire in
forty years. Performing gave them food in their bellies, the clothes on
their backs. How proud they must feel each night as they closed their
eyes to the world.

Education had bestowed upon me the usual qualifications, not that they
really mattered once you were in the throng of things. Material
attainments instead were the criteria of judgement these days,
especially in this metropolis. Like a committed Londoner, I acquired
more possessions everyday. I wanted something new all the time. I
considered myself no different to the city high fliers in six figure
salaries that strode determinedly past me, avoiding all eye contact. I
was the same as the inhabitants of London's doorways. Like all of them,
I was always on the lookout for myself. Being a woman in London was a
life of continual struggle and for me, personal loneliness, especially
in my type of business.

Naturally, in the cosmopolitan city that we inhabit, one meets
countless people every day, people from all walks of life. One might
well exchange friendly "hellos" with Tony from the caf? near one's
place of work, but it doesn't mean that you're not alone inside,
silently screaming for a decent conversation with a like minded
person.

The neon sign from the club across the road flickered pink, lighting my
face with a false glow. I watched the doormen remove a drunk from the
entrance, who then stumbled into a woman colourfully clad in patchwork,
likely to be a refugee from a faraway land. She had a weathered face, a
child on one hip and one hand outstretched. I heard her uttering one
word in English. "Please? Please?" she begged of the well-dressed
urbanites eating MacDonalds, or scurrying on their way to the
fashionable places to be seen. No one gave her any money to add to the
coppers she already had jangling in her upturned palm. I felt sorry for
her. I empathised with anyone that misfortunate in London. Every
Londoner seemed anonymous and solitary, despite being surrounded by so
many people.

I had condemned myself early on to being an observer on the fringes of
London life. That was the path I had subconsciously chosen and become
accustomed to almost from my arrival here. I'm not a martyr. I believe
that you should earn what you eat and I had worked hard today, I had
earned myself a decent meal. Today for example, I retrieved incredibly
useful stuff that people simply discard, like their throwaway lives.
You have a look one day - have a look in any London bin (the ones that
are still there) and you'll see people have thrown away perfectly good
gear. That is my career. As a city woman, I reclaim the unwanted bits
and pieces of everyday life for myself. I recycled. I was an
environmentally friendly woman of the capital.

There was a faint breeze in the summer air as I got back onto my still
tired feet, stretched my back, and picked up my bulging bags of other
peoples' rubbish. I was hungry, and I definitely deserved something to
eat after such a fruitful day.

I meandered on, still working, towards a place where people in Marks
and Spencer's sweaters would give me soup and perhaps a bed for the
night, perhaps in gratitude for my hard work. Slowly walking, I
contemplated one bag lady's contribution to enterprise in the new
millennium.