The London Diaries

I’d seen its pictures in my English textbooks hundreds of times and now it was real. Hyde Park was the first thing I visited upon my arrival in London. I strolled around, picking up pieces of monologues and conversations.
The collection appeared to be especially rich around the Speaker’s Corner: people were crowding there, radiating chaotic energy and throwing thousands of words in the air and into each other.
“Henry VIII is a bastard!” a young woman was chanting.
“Jesus loves ya!” a guy was yelling at the top of his lungs.
“It’s the right time to legalize sex with animals!” a man was crying ecstatically.
“So if you think about it, collagenous protofibril has never had a choice...”
“Who ever cares about mountain-climbers? They’re alone among the peaks...”
Overwhelmed with the tones of words, I sat in one of the deckchairs (there were plenty of those around). As soon as I “landed”, a man appeared in front of me: “Two pounds, please.”
“Oh, what are you gathering money for?” I asked.
“Miss, you have to pay for the deckchair. You don’t believe it’s free of charge, do you?”
“I did, actually. But never mind,” I said lifting myself from the magic deckchair.
That’s what they meant talking about capitalist threats.
I decided to head away from the park, when all of a sudden (as it happens all the time in London), a heavy rain attacked the city. People scattered in all directions looking for a shelter. I managed to get under some old gentleman’s umbrella. It was huge and probably very welcoming, as in a minute there were five of us hiding under it.
“Is it some kind of communist umbrella?” one of the men giggled.
“No, it’s not. It’s a Christian one,” the white-haired gentleman smiled.
The rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. We thanked the gentleman and crept from under the umbrella.
I headed home, splashing through paddles, blinking at the lazy newborn sun and humming silly songs. A juicy apple was hiding in my backpack, waiting for me to eat it.