It is all rugby rugby rugby in our flat this weekend. My husband, Mr C, is a big rugby fan. I am not a massive sport fan, but I am a fan of communal events and international competitions. I love it when a bunch of countries come together to compete in a tournament whether it be sport, baking or dancing. It is always nice to see countries challenge each other in something other than warfare. So I was almost as excited as Mr C on Friday night when the Rugby World Cup opened. Waterloo Station was a hive of activity as thousands of spectators made their way to the famous rugby stadium in Twickenham. 82,000 people took their seats for the opening ceremony and it was broadcast live in pubs around the UK.
Rugby is a nice sport, the fans are often made up of families, the players are paid less inflated salaries than professional footballers and it is a real 'team' sport. You can't win a match unless you all play together as a cohesive team. As my husband told me repeatedly during Friday evening, rugby apparently originated from the Rugby School in Warwickshire in 1823 when a school boy (named William Webb Ellis) picked up the ball during a football match and ran across the pitch with it. It amuses me to think of this fellow clutching the ball in his arms racing across the grass pitch, wind in his hair, laughing while his fellow team mates run after him yelling, 'Hey! This would make a fun game!' 192 years later and countries from all around the world are taking their turns to race across the field, ball in hand. And this year some of them are huge! One player is 6ft9!
An enormous amount of work goes into international sporting tournaments or any massive communal event in fact (which is sweetly show in the above video). The Rugby World Cup does not just involve the players, but the coaches, the referees, the sports therapists, the journalists, the catering staff, the broadcasters and commentators, the stadium staff, the fans and spectators, all down to the hot dog salesman and the guy in the mascot suit. It is a whole little community in itself. Watching the last few matches this weekend and hearing people in the pub, in local cafes and in the streets made me realise what a wide community it is and what the sense of belonging brings to people. I generally like to go my own way through life and I am very independent but I can't deny that sometimes I do enjoy the feeling of belonging to a wider group. I may never belong to the world of rugby (I can't say I am a proper fan) but I do remember feeling euphoric when Ireland won the Six Nations rugby tournament in 2009. I was sitting in a pub in Dublin with Mr C and drinking a 1/2 pint of Guinness. Guinness in Ireland is better than anywhere else in the world. It is so creamy it is almost like drinking alcoholic ice cream. The bar was full of Dubliners and the atmosphere was jubilant and electric. Part of being a member of a community is sharing the joy of the others around you.
Sometimes I wonder what communities I belong to. In my heart I am a Londoner. London is a difficult and fickle community to be part of, partly because it contains almost 10 million people. In a city as big as London, it is easy to feel isolated and lonely. But if you look carefully, everywhere there are opportunities to belong. From bookclubs (my bookclub has around 10 members) to local action groups, religious communities and sports clubs, the city is full of thousands of smaller communities. Even when you least expect it, you find yourself belonging somewhere. Yesterday I went for an asthma review appointment at my local GP surgery. I have suffered from asthma for a few years and although it bothers me very rarely now, it is important to have regular check ups. Asthma can have very serious consequences if not treated properly, so every 6 months or so, I visit my local nurse and have my medication checked and test my lungs by breathing through an instrument called a 'peak flow meter.'
The local nurse at my doctor's surgery is a nice woman, who has a small office at the back of the building and grows sunflowers by her window. Every once in a while a local tabby cat stalks by on the wall outside the window, sits down, lifts one striped leg and proceeds to wash it's butt. The nurse assures me that the cat always regards her and her patients with the utmost disgust, regardless of what the health issue being discussed in the office is. The nurse knows everyone in her catchment area, she sees her patients in the supermarket, at the bus stop and in the local park. She looks at me once and immediately states when she last saw me and asks after my husband. It amazes me how phenomenal her memory is, but then we are part of her community and it is her job to work with this community.
I am also a fixture of this community without even trying to be. The local library staff know I live just down the road and the gentleman who owns the local stationary shop calls me by my first name when I pass by. On the way to the doctor's surgery yesterday, I stepped out of my block of flats and nodded to my neighbor across the road. He likes to sit on his front step when the weather is nice and the sun hits his front door in the morning. He takes off his shoes and opens a newspaper and watches the world go by. After I walked a few yards I came across Bruce. Bruce is a sturdy white cat. I actually have no idea what his name is, but Mr C and I call him Bruce and he seems to respond to the name enthusiastically. We actually dubbed him Bruce the Baptist, because he lazes around the front of the Baptist Church across the road. Bruce is a very vocal friendly cat, who pesters people outside the local library. He has been chased out of our local Waitrose supermarket, the library, people's gardens and the church, but always seems to manage to duck back in to these places whenever he feels like it. He is not a stray, he has a collar and is well fed and healthy, but he seems to view everyone on the street and the local area as his property. He even makes the traffic wait for him to cross the road. He gets tidbits from locals sitting on the bench next to library, he intimidates the local urban foxes who tear into our garbage and if I pet him for long enough he climbs onto my shoulders and purrs loudly while covering me in handfuls of white fur. Everyone greets Bruce and each day he inspects his territory. I can view the whole street from the window of my flat, I watch Bruce strut about, curling around the legs of passer-bys, I watch my neighbor turning his smiling face to the sun and every once in a while I hear our local Pavarotti singing drunken opera down on the high street.
Our local tube station has several entrances and staircases. Sounds echo up and down and across the street outside from within the bowls of the underground. Our local Pavarotti seems to appreciate these acoustics and often he can be found, beer can in hand singing opera at the top of one for the staircases to the Northern Line Tube. He is left alone by the Transport for London staff, partly because he is a rather good singer and he is not causing any trouble. His voice floats deep and melodic across the ticket barriers and into the street outside. He sings everything: Ave Maria, Nessun Dorma, snippets from Carmen and the Barber of Seville. I look forward to hearing him, as much as I look forward to the West Indian platform announcer on the Victoria Line at Victoria Station who always says, 'Mind the closing doors my friends! Driver, take these beautiful people all the way home to Brixton!'
This is my community. It is made up of these local people, my sun-loving neighbor, the long-suffering librarians, Bruce the cat, the local Pavarotti singing his opera tunes, the Jamaican tube announcer spreading joy among weary commuters, the two creative sisters who run my favourite cafe, the man who owns a little gift shop selling beautiful smelling candles and tells me all about his holidays in the Lake District each year and the young student who stacks the scifi magazines in my local newsagent. I may not work for them like my community nurse does, but I know all of them by sight. They might not always remember me, but I make sure I smile at them when I see them, perhaps even nod my head, because in a big city like London, part of being in a community is acknowledging each other. Just like Charles Dance in the promotional Rugby World Cup video, no matter how small a part you play, if you join in, in a community, you can feel that you belong to something bigger than yourself. That sense of belonging, is a pretty fantastic feeling.
You are so right about community. And what a good picture you paint of life in your part of London!
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