THE most thorough website review service for UK businesses
★ Get your own unique FAQ + Selling Points on your profile page
★ be seen by 1000s of daily visitors and win new business

Gold Listings' Content
All content automatically fetched by our spider
Categories New listings
England (6511)
Northern Ireland (30)
Scotland (332)
Wales (150) articles
The Importance of Seeking a Second Opinion via an Independent Financial Advisor

Why Bus Chartering is the Best Bet for Large Groups Traveling Around
Why Bus Chartering is the Best Bet for Large Groups Traveling Around

Smooth Ceilings and Stucco Mastery: A Homeowner's Guide

Rising to the Occasion: Sustainable Jewelry Trends in the UK for 2024

Corporate Debt Management: Strategies for Businesses to Stay Financially Healthy

The Advantages of Starting a Cleaning Franchise Business

Remote Reckonings: Navigating the New Norm in UK Accounting Firms
Remote Reckonings: Navigating the New Norm in UK Accounting Firms

Number of listings removed from our directory since 1st November 2019 = 1517

The Post-Covid Silencing of London

submitted on 21 May 2023 by
The death knell has sounded, but no one was around to hear it. What was once a bustling hive of human activity, a grand and frenetic spectacle of capitalism in all its technicolor splendor, London, post-Covid, has slunk back, chastened and subdued, into a more primeval, contemplative state. It's as if the very architecture of the city has sunk into an abiding lethargy, the Shard like a slumbering stalagmite under a dreary sky, its once effervescent reflection now dulled to a mere glimmer.

Covid, our viral architect, wrought not death alone, but a transfiguration on the metropolis. If Shakespeare's 'woods of Arden' proved a restorative haven, then our own plague has transformed London into a tragicomic dystopia, a veritable 'woods of Apathy.' The populous swarm of suited bodies buzzing through the city's arteries are but a memory, supplanted by an eerie tranquillity. The buildings stand stark, their glassy faces reflecting the visage of a city, emasculated of its economic libido.

This hush is both haunting and seductive, like the spectral whispers of a long-lost lover. The Square Mile, once frenetic and throbbing with the raw energy of capitalism, now echoes with an altogether different tone. From a roiling sea of ambition and avarice, it has metamorphosed into a reflective pond of serenity. An urban paradox, one could say: the quietude that reeks of unsettling nostalgia.

Shakespeare would be terribly amused. He would stroll, head tilted, a quizzical eyebrow aloft, through the deserted boulevards, whispering under his breath: "Wherefore art thou, city slickers?" But alas, the reply would be nothing more than the wind sighing through the spectral edifices of an absent populace.

Aesop too would find solace here. His fable of the town mouse and the country mouse reversed. The erstwhile country mice now at the helm, leading the course of the world from their bucolic retreats, while the town mice scurry into the shadows of remote-working domiciles. Topsy-turvy, my dear friends. Welcome to our Orwellian pantomime.

London's once cacophonous concerto of existence has been reduced to the dull monotone of a dial tone - the only sound youíll hear in the city is the disconsolate wail of a solitary saxophonist, playing a dirge for a dying city, his mournful tunes swallowed by the yawning silence.

Picture, if you will, the tube. Pre-Covid, it was an exquisite symphony of discomfort and apathy, a breathing, pulsating testament to the city's relentless drive. Now, the trains glide through dark tunnels like ghostly serpents, their carriages as empty as the promises of politicians during an election season. The underground, Londonís once throbbing arterial network, is now more akin to a mausoleum, a subterranean testament to the cityís past vibrancy.

Thereís a morose poetry in this quiet, a potent allegory of isolation woven into the very fabric of the city. It's the tragedy of a thousand stories cut mid-sentence, of dreams left to gather dust on desolate desks, of energy and ambition, traded for the sterile, digitized impersonality of a thousand home offices.

But thereís a dark humour in it too, a grand cosmic joke on a city that was once too busy, too preoccupied with the ceaseless cycle of capital to stop for a breath. The virus, with a sense of irony that would make Wilde smirk in his grave, has instigated a long overdue interval in the relentless production of modern life.

To borrow from the lexicon of those entrepreneurial savants who once populated the cityís streets, itís a 'market correction', a resetting of the world, a quiet rebuke from Mother Nature herself. For in the silence, thereís a chance to hear once more, to listen to the whispering wind in the trees, the soft sigh of the river, the gentle hum of a city in repose.

The pandemic, much like a harsh headmaster, has administered a stern lesson, consigning London to an enforced sabbatical from its habitual hubbub. Yet there's an odd comfort in this silence, a tranquil requiem for a city that never slept. Itís as if London has been handed a lemon in the form of a virus, and in return, itís made a curious sort of lemonade, a serene, if somewhat somber, respite from its customary clamor. So here we are, friends, in this bizarrely quiet cityscape, a post-apocalyptic tableaux vivant thatís as fascinating as it is haunting. Will we ever return to our familiar discord? Only time will tell. But for now, let's bask in the silence, the grand paradox of a city devoid of its lifeblood, yet somehow, still resolutely alive.

 (c)2009 - 2024