Oh, London.

Eliot once wrote of London as an Unreal City. One of many. Zones of ever increasing industrialization, commercialization and materialism which will inevitably, in the circle of time, fall to dust and ruin like those great cities of old. Eliot talked of the city dwellers as zombies, drones, mindless automatrons sweeping in their masses through the streets.

Much as I love London, and frequently revel in all the excitement and variety it has on offer, there is no place like the city to make you feel insignificant. At an age when you are struggling to forge your own identity, develop a career and realise your dreams it can be overwhelming to be confronted by the sheer masses of people in the city. Coming from a relatively privileged middle class background I was used to having my hand held or surreptitiously guided. Now, I'm on my own and everything seems so big. I wanted my independence. I got it. Now comes the hard part.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.