May Bank Holiday Monday.

 May Bank Holiday Monday.

The West End of London looked absolutely sensational. But then it always did. It was in the rudest of health and quite the most astonishingly colourful sight. Your heart was swelling, the capital city had never disappointed and for a while you almost felt as though you'd stepped back into your 1960s childhood when everything in London looked fabulous, spectacular, a meeting point of multi culturalism. The West End is still an irresistible tourist magnet where our friends from the Far East still line up their families in the centre of Trafalgar Square and just take an endless supply of photographs surrounded by thousands of pigeons.

But today was the May Bank Holiday Monday, a day of rest and recreation for Britain and as usual my wife and I were just entranced by the magic spell London town was once again casting over us. The pavements and streets were once again heaving and throbbing with people, transient observers and passers by, intrigued by the spellbinding spectacle that was the Mall, Green Park, Trafalgar Square and everything that is synonymous with the West End. 

London is the place where theatreland met mesmerising rows of souvenir shops, restaurants old and new, cafes both vegan and non vegan, Tube railway stations with incredible looking art installations and ageless museums that have to be visited because London is the home of history, both modern and medieval. It's a city that still retains that an indefinable vibrancy and vivacity very few cities can either match or surpass.

In the middle of Trafalgar Square we were reminded once again that not even Bank Holidays are immune from politics, noisy demonstrations and vocally raucous protests. You'd have thought the protestors and the angry mob would have saved their energies for any other day of the year since this was the day reserved for peace and leisure. What we saw was a small cross section of Britain at its most furious, incensed, anguished and desperate to be heard. At times you begin to wonder whether anybody is actually listening to this murmuring majority of the ignored and persistently overlooked.

You may have gathered that the combined masses of both the teaching and nursing community, a thriving body of men and women, have taken a terrible battering in recent weeks. They've been alienated, taken for granted and, it could be said, rendered invisible. They're poorly paid, exploited by the powers that be and then expected to work unreasonably long hours for a pittance. But you've probably heard this story a million times so it should hardly come as any surprise. Today was simply the culmination of weeks and months of frustration, teeth clenching exasperation and being taken for fools by a government that somehow expects them to just get on with it.

Near the lions and fountains of Trafalgar Square there were lively groups of little red teaching union flags milling around listlessly but somehow purposefully. Trafalgar Square was also serenaded by music and good natured activists yelling at the tops of their voices, blaring, bellowing, blasting the London air with sarcastic chants, challenges to those in authority and a general pleading for recognition of their existence. But who on earth could ever value the vital contribution made by the wonderful NHS and the dedicated teachers who are convinced that nobody understands them? Then there are those essential nurses who give such unstinting devotion to duty to their profession without any of the commensurate financial rewards.

For a while you saw the banners and the flags, the people sitting languidly at the bottom of Nelson's Column and imagined that this how London must have felt when the distinguished likes of the great Tony Benn would shout into a microphone and spout those homespun political rants and philosophies. The West End of London always likes to think of itself as the spiritual home of democracy where any subject is open for discussion and  a place where you can just get things off your chest without any repercussions. 

In front of us there was a banner that implored us to 'Jump Aboard the Strike Train' and you couldn't help but think that this was perfectly self explanatory. In broad rainbow colours the notice was wrapped around the base of a lion with all the ferocity and vehemence of the aforesaid animal. But how we love lions so this was forgivable. The civilised voices continued to make themselves heard but to all intents and purposes it must have felt as if they were crying out into the darkness.

We proceeded to walk down towards Green Park and noticed that the people with dogs had much the same idea as us. In the Mall itself and everywhere around us were vivid reminders that next weekend the new King Charles the third and Queen Camilla will become very much part of the Coronation celebrations. Along the whole of the Mall, the Union Jack, that sadly misunderstood flag that represents everything good in Great Britain, dominated the whole of the thoroughfare as if we'd done the whole ceremony repeatedly. There were TV cameras from some part of the globe and a souvenir shop called 'Cool Britannia' that was doing a roaring trade in King Charles the third and Queen Camilla plates, cups, mugs, towels, tins of royal biscuits and biscuit tins, crockery and cutlery paying warm homages to the new monarchy.

So the teachers, the nurses and the dissenting men and women trooped wearily into the late afternoon, still fuming and seething you expect but glad that they still had a platform to air their grievances. We made our way to the railway station with our adorable dog Barney and reflected that all in the world is beautiful if only those who are hell bent on damaging that beauty could just get on with each other. London though is still living, breathing, smiling, chatting, exchanging pleasantries, looking forward to the Coronation of a new King and Queen and still capable of goodwill. Thank you London. You're still behaving impeccably.