Monday | A Week in Fitzrovia

The following is an outline for a soundscape:

Radio: Come, they told me pa-rum pum pum pum

Sam: My name is Mallam Idrissu, but most around me call me Sam. I’m the proud manager of the Rambler Café, right here at 145 Cleveland Street in Fitzrovia. Best pies in town, I can guarantee, and our customers can too. Betty Holmes has come by every Monday morning for the past decade. Would have come today but, as you know, the roads are hard to even walk through at the moment. Surprised you made it out here. Nice to have some company right about now.

Radio: Our finest gifts we bring pa-rum pum pum pum

Sam: I came to London from Ghana in ‘72, so I’ve worked at the Rambler…hm…going on 18 years now! 17 hours a day and 365 days a year. 18 years, yeah.

Radio: To lay before the King pa-rum pum pum pum

Sam: What do I most want? In life? Well that’s quite the question isn’t it, mate. Wouldn’t say I’ve given it much thought, to be honest…What I can say for certain is that seeing everyone in the café each day, some predictable, some not, is pleasant. And fulfilling. Just a nice warm feeling. To feel like you know the people around you. Community isn’t as it used to be. I like to hold on to that. But, if I’m being real honest, I don’t know if I can work like this for much longer. The seeing people is fun but the making the food, cleaning the dishes, lifting up the chairs to clean under, my body is beat, you know? Very worn and beat. I wake up in the middle of the night with an aching back…Maybe I’ll use my savings and go live further out in the countryside, where it’s cheaper and housing isn’t constantly going away. But it’ll be hard, you know, to leave his community, this bit of family, Betty, my brother Ben.

Radio: Rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum

A hollow thump, thump knocking on the door.

Sam: ‘Scuse me, let me get that. We’re closed now but could be a delivery.

Creaks of the floorboards as he walks away. Swoosh of a coat getting pulled down from the wall. The squeak of an opening door. Gusts of wind.

A man: Hey, Sam. Merry Christmas to ya.

Sam: Archie, come on in, you must be freezing. Have a cup of tea, I’m just here having a chat with a new friend.

The squeak of a closing door. More creaks on the floorboard as both walk closer.

Archie: Sam here is a gem. A real gem. Gives me free meals all the time without me even having to ask. Even gives money to that transvestite singer Marilyn, you know, the one who performs down at The George on weekdays, to buy her makeup.

Sam: Don’t need to build me up like that, I know you’d do the same for me.

Archie: You know, there’s rumors that The George is where Horseshoe Brewery used to be. The one that spilled out thousands of gallons of beer and flooded the road, killed eight people. Drowning in lager, can you believe their luck? That was way back…Fitzrovia is a strange place. The richest people in their fancy sport cars splash mud on our bare feet.

Radio: …I wish I had brighter news to gift you, lads, but word has it that the recession is predicted to deepen next year, with unemployment expected to grow to a whopping two million…

Sam: I’m lucky to have a job here.

Radio: …in other news, storms will continue to cover all of North Lo—*static*—through Christmas da—*static*

Radio:

Sam: Is that thing dead again? And the lights too? Bloody hell, machines aren’t worth what you pay for them I tell you.

Quick flips of the light switch. A shuffling about. A cash register slowly and quietly opening.

Sam: I know I’ve got a flashlight here somewhere…if I can only find it…

A sharp gust of wind and the slamming of a door. The click of a flashlight.

Sam: There we go…Archie? Hey, Archie?

Stomps towards the door. Short creak of the door as Sam peeks out.

Sam: It’s all blanketed black out here, think we’ve all lost power…Archie?

Radio: *static*—I played my best for Him pa -rum pum pum—*static*

Radio: Me and my drum.