London Memories

I had just turned sixteen when I went to London to pursue my A levels. I spent two years there living away from home. This comprised my first taste of independent living.

Of course I missed my family – achingly so – but with support from my affectionate London-based Chachu and Chachi, I was able to complete my studies.

During a visit to London this week, memories of those two years came rushing back. The city has changed and reinvented itself since its pre-Thatcher days, but the street names, the red double decker busses and the impeccable manners of its population remain.

Standing tall in my memory are my teachers at Waltham Forest College which I attended.  All three were superb and I quickly established a bond with them at the outset. Through the next two years they remained a source of challenge and inspiration. Mr. Jones, who taught us Advanced Mathematics, was like a character out of P.G. Wodehouse, replete with witty comments (“Ladies and Gentlemen and Others, can you solve this one?”) and incredibly difficult pulley problems. The Physics teacher, Mr. Lyons, was the classic absent-minded professor: late to class, and often looking lost (“Oh no! Where did I put my glasses?”), but making up with his enthusiasm. Mr. Neal, the Pure Mathematics teacher, was a younger fellow who was visibly in love with Ms. Windsor, the teacher next door, but that did not detract him from instilling good vector calculus into our heads.

Outside school, though, London in those days had palpable desperation in the air. Unemployment was high and the economy miserable. Incipient racism, encouraged by the likes of Enoch Powell, was raising its ugly head. While I managed to avoid encounters with roving bands of skinheads engaged in “Paki-bashing,” some of my fellow students were less fortunate. I loved the music of the times and took heart that many rock stars took a stand against racism. Unfortunately the popular guitarist Eric Clapton made irresponsibly racist statements in public that exacerbated the situation.

Tickets for the subway were expensive for a student, but London's Red Bus Pass, which cost ten pounds per month and allowed unlimited bus travel, was a bargain. Armed with it, I explored the sprawling metropolis. Soon I got a part-time job at an off-license selling alcohol to East Londoners, though legally I was too young to drink!

Since family communication was by letter, I looked out for the postman. Overseas phone calls were exorbitant, though local calls at 2p from the red phone booths were a bargain.

Looking back, I realize I learned much of my adult habits here. These included crucial life skills such as managing finances, but also table manners, including the correct way of wielding knife and fork and donning a jacket, holding open the door for women (and standing up when one joins the table); civic sense, such as queuing and minding the trash; and a healthy respect for tolerance, pragmatism and fairness. But I also learned about the class system entrenched in British society, and how one's accent and address instantly determine one's place in the class hierarchy.

After A levels, my London days drew to a close. I could not afford tuition at British universities and had applied for undergraduate scholarships in the United States. One of these came through and I said goodbye to London. I was delighted to be going to America (who would not at seventeen?) but I felt a pang of sadness at leaving this magnificent city. Nowadays, visiting London is always exhilarating.

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