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Goths, cackling teenagers and a woman in a mask being led on a chain leash: Soho is healing
As Edward Thomas almost said, yes, I remember Soho. The name. And for the last six months that’s all it’s been. Stuck indoors, watching the days drip by in lockdown, I was reduced to telling myself: I once used to go out for a living. Writing for the Londoner, nights would begin at, say, a book launch in the Groucho and end in the basement of Trisha’s. But coronavirus put paid to all that.
First there was terror, then boredom, as lockdown dragged and we were distant spectators to the vital battles going on in the hospitals. Online, where we all had to live, some celebrated the withdrawal of human life from city centres, gleefully captioning pictures of animals returning “nature is healing”.
I didn’t see it like that. When at last things began to ease, normal life did not return in a rush, like water through a sluice. The physical and economic wounds of coronavirus went deep. London would be a long time healing.
I wasn’t despondent, but I was dismayed. That is, until I strolled down Charlotte Street under the evening sun last week, heading for Soho. When I walked over Oxford Street’s southern bound I stepped into a time warp. Soho Square pulsed with life. There were goths with pink hair and tight leather, gaggles of bohemians knocking back wine, teenagers cackling, and quiet drinkers sipping from cans.
As I soaked in the square I got another urban sensory overload. The stench of piss emanating from an on-street urinal. Ahh, Soho. It was good to be back.
When I walked over Oxford Street’s southern bound I stepped into a time warp
There was a buzz in the air. The place is now supercharged. Outdoor dining is here. Everyone sits out on the streets and eats. Tables, umbrellas, benches and chairs run down the centre of Soho’s roads, where trucks and tuk-tuks used to compete. There’s an impromptu piazza round every corner. How continental.
Don’t be mistaken, though, this is London-continental. A heady, claustrophobic energy still hums through the narrow lanes. We haven’t imported the relaxed piazza mindset. As I sat slap bang in the middle of the road with my girlfriend, eating impossibly small plates of Spanish food, the world and his dog were charging past like there was no tomorrow.
Later, as the sun set and the lights came up, whole streets started shimmering. Palls of cigarette smoke, booze fumes wafting from diners, clouds of conversation in every language, joyful yells — the city was back.
Perhaps I’m getting carried away? After all, an evening may have put a spell on you. A light breeze, the summer air, good company, good food, an ice-cold drink. All these may help to harden a mood into a belief, calcifying within what would otherwise have been fleeting. If it had rained maybe I wouldn’t have written this.
Then again, Soho really suits alfresco. And extra space may help restaurants to fix some of the damage coronavirus and lockdown dealt. Punters seem to love it. I never thought a month ago somewhere might feel so old-normal.
But the real moment that convinced me, when I knew that I had been too fatalistic about our irrevocably changed world, happened during dinner. There was just the smallest commotion ahead of me, barely a flutter. I looked up to see a woman in a face mask being led. On a chain leash. Quite happily it seemed. The man who led her looked like she did — perfectly average. She had a John Lewis bag in her hand. Nobody looked twice. That’s when I realised. Soho is healing.
