Here are some of the descriptive pieces I wrote recently for University. We were required to visit various places in London, before writing a short description of each one. They included the Tate Modern, Dior and The Child of the Jago (a clothes shop owned by Vivienne Weswtood's son). I hope you like them, and any comments would be welcomed :) My writing isn't perfect, but it's getting there! Enjoy :)
Mummy, I don’t want to go to the Tate today
The bellowing, deafening screams filled the wide-open space, stopping only when his little lungs could no longer deal with the struggle. His cheeks began to blush a flame red, cooled only by the tears that flowed as he continued with all his might for his mother’s attention. His legs were flapping now, bashing against the wheels of his buggy, beginning to manoeuvre back and forth in a mental motion.
His embarrassed mother crouched down to his level, making soothing noises in the naive hope that he will eventually be quiet. Ignoring the stares from those who past her, some sympathetic, some looking in disgrace, she began to move around the huge, high ceiling lobby in circular motions. Meanwhile, trying so desperately to find some sort of sweet - e-number fuelled - food to bribe him with. To no avail, she begrudgingly made her way towards a bright room, splashed with colour, pictures and gifts.
All this and they had yet to reach the first floor exhibitions. Obviously, this doting mother made the wrong choice by trying to educate her 4-year-old son at the Tate. Next time Hamley’s.
London, 1955, aged 18.
She carefully picked up her mother’s beloved issue of Vogue, a rare treat. Flicking through its illustrious pages she caressed and smelled everyone as she went. She stopped, to admire the fashion spreads that glanced back at her. Her favourite? Why, Dior of course. She studied the decadent, sumptuous fabrics, and hourglass silhouettes with great admiration.
She dreamt of the day that she would be able to wear Dior.
London, 2010, aged 73.
Dressed in her navy princess cut coat and mid length skirt, with her wispy, white hair styled in pin curls, there she stood, outside the ever so picturesque Dior store, with her husband in tow, who held an umbrella over his wife to shield her from the dreary London rain.
Her fondness for Dior was apparent by the way she gazed so adoringly through the wide windows at the luxurious clothes. She shut her wise eyes for a second, and released a subtle, but pleasing smile. She clung, dependently on her husband’s arm now.They weren’t quite the same, but she appreciated that they made her remember again.
Living in a time of Victorian squalor was a brave, honourable 1800s soldier. He fought the bloodiest of battles, but wore his military uniform with abundant pride, considering it the most supreme of honours.
He met a violent end.
It stands, destitute in the slums of the east end, tall, dark and brooding. It’s ownership of that corner is apparent by the irrelevant few sited in its wake.
Two watch-men protect this sacred place, obeying the orders of their absent master. Their demonic eyes stare into the faces of the outsiders, not saying a word.
As they entered, their presence was not welcomed kindly. Nervously trudging past the servants, they made their way down the eerie staircase. Gold frames, rich red and green walls, portraits and fur, a thing of luxury? Not, when obscured by grotesque taxidermy, bodiless dolls with piercing black eyes and enigmatic portraits from yesteryear.
Fear consumed them.
They felt haunted by the clothes worn by prisoners of this place. Amongst the horrifying shrine, lay a jacket, a red jacket.