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King’s Cross

LAMENT FOR THE FOURTH ESTATE

Once Parliament was in recess – both Houses

of Hypocrisy on their long summer hols –

in the basement of an office block near

King’s Cross (where you catch the Hogwarts Express)

one Saturday morning in July,

three journalists, watched by two technicians

from GCHQ, spent three hours to save

the Government’s face, and The Guardian’s,

by destroying hard drives with drills and grinders,

circuit boards whose data – from the exiled

whistleblower Edward Snowden – was

replicated throughout the Americas.

Ah, far, far  better farce than inaction,

and capitulation than loss of

influence! How the Red Tops rejoiced!

 

Only the Manchester Guardian – founded

after Peterloo, and to promote

repeal of the so-called Corn Laws – condemned

the Suez Canal fiasco, that last

hurrah of gunboat diplomacy.

That editor would have hidden the hard drives

somewhere in the British Library’s stacks,

just round the corner on the Euston Road,

and sent the hapless lads from Cheltenham

to Platform  9¾.

 

 

 

HARRY POTTER AND THE NORTHERN LINE

The timetabled rumble of the Northern Line

between King’s Cross and Euston stations

moves beneath the British Library’s

‘Harry Potter: A History of Magic’.

Aficionados like my granddaughter

are oblivious, focused on the wonder

of ancient texts and modern images,

the alchemy of ink, pigments, alphabets

transformed into art. Between trains there is

the clip-clopping of Centaur’s hooves.

 

We walk to King’s Cross to see Platform

9¾. People are queuing

to take selfies beneath the sign attached

to the wall next to The Harry Potter shop.

As famous in her lifetime as Dickens

in his, J.K. Rowling is a diligent,

erudite genius, creator of

a universal, compassionate brand.

 

In the deepest, darkest Library stack

my two volumes sleep, the second – even

slimmer than the first – dedicated

to my granddaughter. Every fifteen minutes

or so the pages stir. They can hear

the steady beat of Hippogriff wings.

 

 

 

TAVISTOCK SQUARE

David Selzer By David Selzer3 Comments2 min read1.7K views

 

Am I alone in my egotism when I say that never does the pale light of dawn filter through the blinds of 52 Tavistock Square but I open my eyes and exclaim,’Good God! Here I am again!’…?” Virginia Woolf

The Woolfs’ house was on the south side of the Square.

From there the couple ran the Hogarth Press.

The place was razed by a stray bomb in the Blitz –

but they had moved, the year the war started,

to their house in Sussex near the river Ouse.

In the Square’s gardens there is: a cherry tree

planted in remembrance of Hiroshima

and Nagasaki; a stone memorial

to conscientious objectors; a bronze statue

of Ghandi sitting cross legged in his dhoti;

and much else that speaks softly for peace,

for tolerance, for charity, for hope.

Hasib Hussain’s target was the Northern Line

from King’s Cross – but it had been suspended

earlier that morning. He tried to phone

the other three – but got no answers.

He boarded the number 30 somewhere

on Euston Road. The bus – the first three bombs

having already jammed the traffic –

was diverted down Upper Woburn Place

into the Square. Outside the BMA

he killed himself, and thirteen strangers.

He was 18, an FE student,

a member of  his local cricket

and football teams. Late that night his parents,

worried he had not returned from his trip

to London with his friends, rang Scotland Yard.

Virginia, two years after they had moved,

walked into the Ouse. Her body was found

some weeks later. A bronze bust of the writer

is in the south west corner of the Gardens.

‘Am I alone in my egotism…?’

CODA

In a black cab on our way to the ballet –

‘The Red Shoes’ at Sadler’s Wells – we passed

the munificence of St Pancras Station

that dominates the six lane highway

and then the removed magnificence

of King’s Cross set far back from the road,

and I was reminded of some of Moscow’s

imitative terminals, and I thought

how a railway terminus is like

a proscenium arch and the track

inevitable like a plot unfolding.

Terminus was the god of boundaries,

the guarantor of happy ends, as it were.

And Moscow’s land locked dénouements came to mind:

Berlin, Warsaw, Kiev, Ekaterinburg.

 

For islanders the world supra mare

is almost abstract, fictive, the notion

that the end of land might be days away

impossible to contemplate – like

the stage gone dark, the dancing stopped.