motorcyclemeditation.com

Cool bright summer Sunday morning, on the motorcycle to Wigmore Hall for a concert. Piano, cello, violin, just about a perfect combination, should be good.

The motorcycle parked around the corner, half an hour to spare, strolling around. The buildings all about a century old, newly restored, now offices. Each in its own style as if unaware of the ones alongside.

Wigmore Street, Harley Street, Wimpole Street, all prosperous and aware of it. Crass Oxford street only a block away, the proximity of a disreputable neighbour accentuating the need for genteel display. All to best effect on a bright quiet Sunday, yet also containing an eerie undercurrent of lifelessness, the elegance contrived and self conscious.

Fifteen minutes of strolling, you feel as if you’re starring in some movie, one made by someone without real knowledge of London, the buildings deployed as a cheap shorthand to establish quaintness. Half expect to see a penny farthing wobbling down the street, maybe some jolly Cockney workmen singing whilst they toil.

In the concert, the same thing. Niceties observed, seats taken on time, please turn off your phones. Between movements in the music, applause duly withheld, arcane rituals followed. The audience mostly elderly, dressed as if for church, some occasionally nodding off, lunchtime sherry beckoning. Wonder how many of them actually hear the music, the piano part ripping into the strings, the strings dancing in response, fiery Beethoven, respectful of protocol is what it aint.

After the concert, getting on the motorcycle, passing the concert hall. The crowd still emerging into the sunshine, affluent, sociable, waiting for chauffeurs. Well, each to their own.

On the motorcycle, tempting to let rip with the engine, cut through the prim scene. Refraining. Such a statement, as yawn-inducing as the scene eliciting it. Just riding smoothly away, looking forward to getting to London’s grittier parts.