So there I was, in London under a dismal sky… trotting to catch the end of the walk signal, closing up behind a man with his leashed dog—and ya, I was judgmental over his lack of traffic punctuality: even though I was slow too. Once across, we had a block-long grassy park on our right, and substantial dark buildings, (“row flats?”) across the street to our left, with all the roofs, angled or flat, being the usual English black.
I glanced sideways at the man as I caught up, thinking to walk fast and get ahead of him. The dog was a small brown shorthair, well groomed; the man had his non-leash hand—he had one of those retractable leashes—his non-leash hand up inside the sleeve of his green army-ish jacket: as if he was a shy teenage girl, or as if the hand was missing. Hair was stringy, as if unwashed, or less cared for, or revealing of a decision on vanity which I did not share. Later, after I realized that he was indeed missing part of his arm, I cut him some slack.
I noticed he was looking left up at the sky, or perhaps the roofs. As I drew abreast I wondered, for a microsecond, “Would his fellow Londoners speak to him? Is he some kind of loser?” His dog was obviously well cared for: with a healthy coat, sniffing around in an emotionally secure way. “Do others ignore the man? Is he scary?” But in that moment I felt neither fear nor distaste. Besides, my old mantra is, “Because I am afraid to love, you are alone.”
He was looking left, high at the sky, as I said, “Nice day out.”
After a second of looking surprised, he replied, “Yes, unless it rains again. I was looking at the (I missed it) next to the “Georgian terrace.””
We stopped to look.
I did not know either of those terms, but I did know that I am better at discerning camouflage than most people, and I had spotted solar panels, not raised, but flush with the black roof, so I said, “I see two solar panels on the roofs to the far left.”
He grimaced. “That is architectural ‘green washing.’” Elaborating on the topic, he pointed to the south. Nearby, where “you can barely see” in the mist, were some developments. One was the highest, called the “strata tower.” I figured I knew what the title meant: the developers were intending connotations of the stratosphere, and high nosed society types.
The strata building was to have idealistic wind turbines on the roof. “That,” I said instantly, holding up my finger, “can be noisy.” My skeptical brother Gordon had told me so, years ago.
“Right. The developers were going to fill the penthouses, for extra millions, but only after people had moved into the lower suites. But at last, when millionaires were brought in to see the top penthouses… they heard a constant whine, and they asked, “what’s that?” And they decided not to move in.”
We walked together.
With some exasperation, my sidewalk companion explained the turbines would, for the demands of parkade lighting, elevators and a goodly listing of other things I forget, provide no more than eight per cent of the needed power. Great big turbines for a mere eight per cent! He didn’t think much of such idealism, and I frowned in agreement. No wonder the turbines have (I think) been turned off.
Considering our (most-likely) mutual budgeting, I told him that, just down the road, I had found a cozy cheap place Rise and Dine that was “excellent for the likes of me.” Neither of us could remember the word “hash browns,” but we both knew what I said I wouldn’t eat. Too greasy!
As we watched his dog sniff at the margins I thought, “Here’s a man who is involved in his community, knows architecture and keeps an interest in life: surely a man I would love to have tea and cookies with.” …Over tea I might have joked with him: “May I boast? I’m a university graduate, since I turned 40.” Because I presume he was a graduate too, or at least self-taught. Glad I spoke to him!
Halfway down the block we had to part, as I turned off to take the path to the Imperial War Museum. I called, “Thank you for being a part of my tourist experience!”
…Actually, thinking of my home city, aren’t we are all tourists, alone and in bunches, on this spinning globe? I shouldn’t be judgemental of the conforming masses with their turbines, a mass my skeptical brother calls “everybody and their dog.” Life is good.
… …
… …
Sean Crawford
At Heathrow International Airport,
That was planned and overseen by a Canadian,
Halfway between his flat and London.
…Ya, and about a decade ago, the head of the Bank of England was a Canadian too—He later became the prime minister of Canada.
February,
2026
Blog note: For this piece, the only changes I made after hitting “post” were to add a couple links to that old exotic city. Other times I might change a couple clauses; still other times, the comments underneath may change.
In that sense, it pays to re-read my blog.
I for one like to reread a pop culture best seller after six months, to ensure that I’ve gotten the juice. Also, for my first read, I may not get around to what everyone else is raving about until seven months later. Then if I’m not careful, such an objective delay can make me jaded about our dear culture.
