My little farewells to London: Bloomsbury

We never really said goodbye. It was one of these casual relationships that you merely say “See you later” when you make your leave. Considering I lived in a dungeon office – chained to my desk, as JK, my boss, used to say – on the main square of Bloomsbury campus I have to say we kept it pretty unemotional.

It is a place that gives me a cool breeze and sharp thinking all year round. No matter the temperature outside, when I stand in Tavistock square I feel ready for the most rigorous academic thinking, the most sarcastic comment, the most cynical view of the world.

If it was a person, Lord Bloomsbury, would be a frisky aristocrat in his late 30s. With cool skin, and flawless white shirt; phlegmatic humour and sharp calculations. Lots of “indeed, my dear” and “lovely weather”. He would use the same condescending smile both to invite you for dinner and to shoot you in a dark alley (as long as he did not get blood on his shirt).

The buildings are flawless, the once private park squares still reflect the intellectual snobbery of their famous frequents, immaculate perfection that even the drunk students are not able to affect. They get swallowed by it.

The university buildings add to the feeling. Especially the big Senate Big Brother presence. But turn left and you are in front of SOAS. The only place in the area that managed to add its own colour. Curry smells, colourful ethnic clothes, colourful people, music… A spot of red wine on Lord Bloomsbury’s white shirt!

I like him. Not sure he likes me back. But you never know with these upper class fellows. We might meet again, who knows. But next time on more equal terms.