Strandland

The Strand is my land; he said as he raised his hand, no its mine she says, as she clutches onto her handbag, Georgians, Victorians and Dukes have all ruled the famous area, during the good and the bad times. The groups of homeless people, who are sometimes forgotten, have also claimed it as their own. However if there is one thing we can all agree on, is as an icon it is simply monumental From the incredible history to the amazing architect, stunning arts and literature, its meaningful things like these that have made this area so special to so many people for so many generations. But like always with anything concerning the past, there are so many versions. Some of truth and others of pure fantasy, stories that will make you laugh and heave, cry and wonder, as well as some that you make you completely sick. However the voice that I want to focus on is the real voice of the streets, the ones that actually call the strand their home from Monday to Sunday, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and 365 days a year. So many experiences, from different generations spanning over countless decades. What exactly does the stranded Man and Woman associate with the most central part of London, is it the handouts every evening, a can of special brew every afternoon, the meeting place with friends and other rough sleepers. Or maybe it’s the famous Friday night gathering with all the guitars, the South American in the clown suits, or the generosity of all the churches giving out food. Maybe it’s even the glamorous Women (definitely for me) on their way to a crazy night out, or the great history that surrounds them night and day during their current struggle. But it’s quite funny because as I write this, I actually know the answers to those questions, as I know from first hand experience what all of that is like. For that period in my naive state of mind, was the most unforgiving part of my existence.