A London Tragedy.

Today is June 16^th which is Bloomsday; the day James Joyce set his novel Ulysses in 1904 as that is the first day he set out with the love of his life; Nora Barnacle. I usually write something about it but this post will only be set on June 14^th and 15^th of this year.

London is one of the greatest cities in the world; you may have another opinion but I love it; I always have. I have grown to like Los Angeles better, with New York and Dublin in my top few too. But London has been hurting these last few months.

The other place that was hurting, in Britain, is Manchester. I am sure one of my relations might have been in that theatre of young kids when a piece of snot, that had been wiped on a wall of a human being, blew himself up and killed many people which included lots of kids. The pity about life is the relations I have in Manchester have gone their separate ways with most of them extending the Irish diaspora and strayed to other parts of the world. I know some are in New York but many still live in Manchester.

In London here were two terrorists murderers on the loose in March and a couple of months ago then this week a fire burnt down a Tower Block in west London.

There it is above Grenfell Tower; that photo was taken sometime during the first few hours of June 14^th – there have been many speculations by all the experts under the sun, telling all and sundry how it happened but you don't need to be an expert to know that if you wrap a building in a cladding that is not fire proof it will catch fire and spread to the rest of the building as opposed to remaining local on concrete.

Last night I buttered some toast, ready to put on some lemon curd and send it down the hatch with a hot drink and as I felt into the drawer for the fish knife, which I use as a butter knife, I thought of some individual who, 2 nights before, would be preparing a little snack for themselves, putting their utensil away and settling down to watch TV. 

That TV and everything else around them is no more. Gone up in an inferno and the person would be lucky to survive. They would be left with nothing – not even a change of underwear or maybe not even any footwear.

People look at them on their television sets and feel sympathy for them and their plight. See them desperately trying to tell the TV reporters what happened, trying to make a case and asking questions; questions questions questions and if they got any answers they would step back and realise there is nowhere to go. All their keepsakes and memorabilia gone; their books, magazines and treasures; all gone.

The big thing that was realised after 9/11 is that paper survived: pieces of paper blew over the streets of Manhattan for many months after the planes hit the World Trades Centre Building and sure enough, the other morning, pieces of paper with a child's page of homework was drifting around the streets of North Kensington. Of course it was on the news all day as the fire was not put out; even now the building is not considered safe.

I thought what it must be like so I threw some clothes in to my case and went down there – nothing much: a few pairs of jeans, shorts and some shirts.

The first thing I saw when I got off the tube train at Latimer Road is what you see at the foot of the page. One of the people being interviewed on TV said “people should not have to live like pigeons.”

Just look at it – at least pigeons can fly.

When I came out of Latimer Road tube station I was directed by a policewoman to the end of a street to donate what I had brought. On the way up the street I saw hundreds and hundreds of people, all volunteers; loading vans directing people with donations to various places.

Food was brought; really good food I heard. Not only the survivors but the volunteers needed to eat.

There were lots of toys, buggies and push chairs; cosmetics and sanitary stuffs, all were needed. Just think what you are doing now – whatever you are using, the survivors have lost. If they have a pen in their hand it will be something that was donated.

I went in to a club, which normally would be serving alcohol, and the floor was covered with donations. Then in to a yard at the back and loads of boxes were marked with shirts, men's hoodies, shirts etc. I found some boxes for what I had brought.

Going back outside I was reminded of 9/11; there was a plain wall where people had written messages in desperation in case someone had seen their loved ones. There were bunches of flowers at the bottom of the wall. 

I saw all this on TV when 9/11 happened and there it was in front of my eyes.

Grenfell Tower is in a very eclectic neighbourhood of London; maybe even Bohemiam rather like some areas of New York, San Francisco and LA, and consequently breeds a lot of great characters and is possibly a writer's delight and the people of the neighbourhood all came together that day; yesterday.

My visit there was emotional; people were crying and looking for lost relatives, others carried photographs and would ask if their sister or brother had been seen; maybe their parents and some were looking for their children; and all the time a buzz of activity could be heard.

It was also inspirational – but these people will want answers; will want to know why they were buttering toast one minute and the next not only homeless but helpless. Throwing their arms around their children who survived and not being able to say much without a tearful break in their voice.

You see it's okay to have sympathy but empathy is what was needed beforehand.

Here is a place where you can send some money; it will convert to your currency automatically so many thanks: https://secure.thebiggive.org.uk/donation/to/5144/27122/