London.

I've always loved reading and writing poetry, in fact its the only thing I enjoy about English literature (even though Ive been studying it most of my life!)
I wrote this poem about London a while ago and have always planned to make a short film inspired by it. It's very different to the films I usually make, so I hope the images compliment the poem and it works well as a short film.



At the tube station. People push past.
The greedy ticket machine took my money, then refused to give me the ticket I deserved.
I was ready to complain.
My friend pointed out the sign above the machine. 'Out of order.'
Our first fit of giggles.
More to come.

The escalator. Keep right.
“But why?” my naïve friend exclaimed.

People stand around clutching tube maps.
Hoping, if they stare at it long enough, it will suddenly make sense.
I look at my own.
A maze of multi-coloured spaghetti. There to make your journey 'easy' and 'stress-free'.
I stand for a while.
Bewildered by this amazing piece of art, nobody else sees it this way.
People carelessly glance, then stuff it in their bag.
Never looked at, never admired.
They just see it as a map.
There to help, to do a job.
Nothing else.

I wonder, how can a map be so small, so calm, so simple?
When just a few metres above are the busy, crowed streets of London.
How is that possible?
The stations, what wonderful names.
Each one opens a window to the history of London, and my imagination.
Oxford circus, Piccadilly circus.
Why a circus? What happened there?
I continue reading, fascinated by the reasons for these names.
Baker street, Waterloo, Shoreditch, Old street.

An unnatural wind whistles down the tunnel.
Thousand of breaths, exhaled by early morning commuters.
Forever wondering, haunting the underground.
Never seeing the light of day again.
We stand staring into the darkness.

A mechanical menace approaches.
Suddenly crowds of people appear from nowhere.
Swept into the carriage. No use trying to go against the tide.
Finding a seat is impossible.

The carriage jolts.
Hang onto whatever you can; a handle, a seat, a stranger's arm.
Until they turn round.
My face turns a shade of red. My friends gasp for air, they can't stop laughing.
But we knew behind the laughter was fear.
People looked suspiciously at men with big rucksacks. Why does he keep checking his watch?
The pictures from The BBC news at 6 o'clock haunt us, still.

More people come in, we have to shuffle further, into the main part of the carriage.
I feel I should talk.
Why do people never talk any more? Why is it not seen as socially acceptable?
A simple “Good morning” is seen as a death threat.
I resist temptation.

I look around the carriage.
I imagine I know everyone here, who they are and what they do.
Something glamorous and exciting.
They have to, it's London.
A man with a tailored suit, heading to a very important meeting at Downing Street to talk about the stock exchange, retail index and demographics and other things I've heard on the news but don't understand.
A guy, in his twenties towers above me. Skinny jeans, ripped shirt, leather jacket, trilby. He's going for the 'just got out of bed' look. He must be in a band.
A model so thin, any sudden movements she'd break like a breadstick.
A guy about my age, a magpie's delight, listens to his music, and the rest of the carriage is forced to listen too.
I think about what their lives are like. Where do they live? Who are their friends? Are they really that different to me?
I wish I was them.

My trail of thought is rudely interrupted.
The carriage doors open, we are released. I hope this is our stop.
We go up the escalator. Back into the light of day.
We blink like the newly born.

Swarms of people push past, each one wrapped up in their own lives.
Each one on their own mission.
I look around open mouthed, breath in the London air. I feel like I belong.

Time to shop.
The shops are 5 times bigger here. Primark stretches along the whole street.
People run around picking up shoes, scarves and bags. Because “They're only a couple of quid”
Even though they have another 50 at home.
Not a moment of thought is spared for the children who got paid 50p to make the last blue dress in a size 8, that two women are now fighting over.

People shove past you in the street, don't give it another thought.
Manners do not exist here.

Weak, paper Primark bags bang together.
At least one per person.
Women are mortified as their bags split open to reveal enough £1 knickers to clothe the whole of Africa.

A man sits in a doorway. Asks for loose change.
A woman struts past with her D&G sunglasses, even though its November.
“A bargain, reduced from £200, to £199”
Her sunglasses must be too dark.
As she walks past, her Armani bag hits him.
His £1 worth of coins, scatter across the floor and disappear into the forest of legs.
Never to be seen again.
But she continues walking.
No apology, no look, no reaction.

Newspaper stands on busy corners.
Don't be fooled, they sell more than just newspapers.
Miniature Union Jacks flutter in the wind.
Rows and rows of plastic bulldog figures.
Each with 'made in China' on the bottom.
Tacky hats, scarves, t-shirts and underwear.
ALL with our nations flag printed on.
Proud to be British.

The Sun headline reads: “Shameful British teens abroad”
Proud to be British...?

Camden Market. Where you can wear want you want, do what you want and no one cares.
The only place where you see Goth shops, hippy boutiques and a Nike shoe shop next to each other.
Something doesn't seem quite right.
We float around, in a trance. Hypnotised by what we see.
We aren't here to buy.
Just looking.
We loose ourselves.
Handmade dream catchers chime in the wind, a local DJ plays his R&B tunes.
But somehow it works.

Our stomachs rumble.
We are hit by smells of foods from all over the world: Chinese, Jamaican, French and Indian. All freshly cooked in front of you, each claiming to be more traditional than the other.
So much choice, so many new flavours to explore.
We just have a Mac Donalds.

I sit there eating my Big Mac, slowing blocking my arteries.
I could sit here all day and watch the people go by. The city is full of life.
No green fields, no nosey neighbours that know everything about everyone.
You can be who you want.
My friends have had enough, their feet ache, they've run out of money.
They want to get away from the crowds and the rushing. They miss the clear country air.
Some people feel trapped in London. I feel free.

Driving back home.
The air is clearer, the roads are quieter.
The world seems smaller.
And my opportunities lessen.

-Kim Nunn