The City: Creating a Sense of a Place

A few miles s tabuh of central London, the blasphemous f minor of an open sewer runs deep and green, glistening ever so closely to Green Park, pattering on at its own tranquil pace, forrader reaching off into the distance. On 1 spatial relation of this unappealing canal, the well-to-do w anys of the council flats reach on until clashing with the lively air of the vibrant city, further on the park side, the avow lined with shrubs- fresh and green with every(prenominal) spring, carry in their lower leaf junctures the reminder of the debris of the angry winds and broken bottles gleaming in the morning sun, t altogether dark weeds with their whittled leaves as a testimony to their harsh life.On the sandy bank under the bushes the leaves lie so crisp that even a unwrap take fors a great skittering noise if he were to run across them. Gangsters came reveal in the evening, all of them feel frightened and panicky while looking at around constantly as if they were expecting som ething bad to happen, once theyre happy unassailable ways soon start teeming with the activity that can only be found in such an able community. The ladies of the darks hurrying along to their corners, their gamy heals clattering with every step.They leave a lingering scent of cheap scent and their adventures of the night originally. Each inhabitant looked as though they belonged no aim but thither. Suddenly the shady streets burst with the melodic roar of street life the gentle sirens in the back ground, the arguing of neighbours that have m another(prenominal) almost mandatory in this little place, the roar of the cars as they sped away and the sound of their horns when trapped like a corned beast, the incessant mark barking, the booming music with its heavy bass filling the streets and the wind sound through the gaps in the buildings.There is a road leading other(prenominal) the bushes and through the park, driven rough by boys coming out of the near college, their wh eels screeching like a tortured cat as they make their way to the city centre, and driven hastily by bureaucrats coming dump from the adjacent office block to spend a night in the pub and drink away their guilty life.In front of the low horizontal limb of a giant sycamore nigh to this pub, at that place is a bench thats been worn drink down after many bibulous nights the benchs paint is worn by the many tramps that have spent night after night on it, the many drunks passing out on it and just your average common vandal looking to leave their mark in the crumbling neighbourhood, a desperate attempt to get some attention from the free world. The evening of a hot day started with little wind, moving among the people, creating the issue of a Mediterranean bar. The shade climbed up the street towards the end.Outside the pub lone drunks sat noisily, like little grey sculptured stones, passers by hurriedly avoiding the stench of stale beer and urine. Then from the highway came the sound of sirens on a busy road, the drunks looked worriedly around, few even scattering into the shadows non wanting to be the one reaped away for a minor infringement of the law. Out of one of the flats a frightened kid hurried down the road and around the corner, fleeing from the familiar sound of BOY, does your mother know youre out? For a moment the place was lifeless, nothing was moving and there was an supernatural stillness.Gradually dickens police cars emerged from the distance, creeping towards the pub only to pull up next to the park bench. Two policemen get out thence pompously and arrogantly make their way to the pub while shock the gazes of the nearby onlookers and revelling in the effect they had on the innocent drinkers. Everyone stirred, whether they were guiltily looking into their glasses or starting up a false conversation, they were all thinking the same thing, going over in their head all the crimes they had committed in their life, wondering about their innocence.Then, before the cops could even nine a drink, a group of gangsters, covered from head to toe in black clothes, suddenly emerged from the shadows, their gold chains glittering in the vague light. They met eyes with the cops. There were a few moments when no-one moved before there was a crash as the cops outside table was overturned and employ as temporary cover. Almost simultaneously, the gangsters dived behind some bushes surrounding the nearby park bench.The pubs customers were stunned in awe, they did not realise what was going on until the first piercing gunshot entered their ears, immediately followed by a linage curling feminine scream that lasted for only a few seconds before disappearing into the mixture of blood, gunshots and terrified yelps. At first neither side was giving in despite the incredible amount of frenzied bystanders. aft(prenominal) a few moments of nut house people started stampeding and fighting with each other to get inside first. A mother t ried to shield her fuck up in a pushchair as she ran for cover.A teenager films it with his retrieve from behind a bush hoping for the fame that usually preceded such events. No one is sure how long it lasted but all that was left was the bodies of the dead, the cries of the wounded and two extremely proud looking cops. No one dared to speak or even move, they rather just lay there, motionlessly. Then almost as if they knew their cue, birds started chirping and a gust of wind started blowing. And for a brief moment the chaos that had just consumed this little street subsided.