Cruising, foraging, ransacking

Another London Sunday

*SNAP*

I looked over my left shoulder and saw a Clapham dad staring at me, his toddler rolling around on the muddy ground in a Michelin-man suit, like a tortoise stuck on its back, a few feet from where - in stooping down to admire the snowdrops - I had just seen a used condom.

The twig was in my hand in a moment, almost before I had time to think about what I was doing. I hastily strode out of the tiny patch of woodland, swishing my stick of Blackthorn like a whip, scattering loose petals in my wake. I practically jogged home, as fast as the dogs would allow (not fast at all), to get it into some water.

I feel terrible guilt. For if everyone in London also decided that they wanted to nab a whip of blossom for a vase on their mantel then there would be not a blossom - nor a tree - left in sight. The line between ‘foraging’ and ‘ruining’ is a very fine one in the metropolis. Walking home with my loot, I felt every passerby judge my selfish taking.

But this is my local ‘woodland’. While it seems absurd to think about this small cluster of trees in these terms, it is technically right to do so. The Woodland Trust (what a brilliant organisation) says so.

The ‘wood’ lies between the grass football pitches and the dusty, gravel football pitches, and on it’s edge is a brand-newly-renovated ‘changing rooms’; a tiny cottage (cough) that, for as long as I can remember, had been dilapidated and fenced off.

Almost all of Clapham Common is given over to football pitches. Or perhaps it is more accurate to just say ‘pitches’, because through the week and weekend (and depending on the season) us lowly pedestrians must weave between fierce matches of ultimate frisbee, Aussie Rules, rugby, cricket, and torturous bootcamps. Dodging the hurled balls and bodies is a medal-worthy endeavour in and of itself. God forbid a hapless dog should think a passing ball was intended for them to play with. These sportsmen (for they are mostly men) do not see the fun in sharing this public space.

Once through the heaving competitors, each match seemingly exclusive to a particular race, age, or gender, one reaches the ‘woodlands’ and for a moment one feels cosseted. There the swollen throat of a daffodil, here the sprawling heads of a flock of flopping snowdrops going over. In one tiny corner, some very early cow parsley is flowering! However, look closer.

I have long understood that any densely wooded area within the M25, once night has fallen, is the exclusive domain of the frisking, lusty male. After all, I grew up in the London of George Michael’s renaissance. However, it was only today I learnt that Clapham Common is so famous for it’s gay cruising that it has its own mention on the Wikipedia page for Gay cruising in England and Wales. Indeed, it has an entry on squirt.org that gives precise directions to “a large, triangular wooded area, very close to Wakehurst Road, The Avenue (A205), or Bowood Road. This is known as the main cruise triangle”. It has a four-star rating and has been viewed 1602579 times, it says. Do I regret googling ‘clapham common gay sex’? No, not at all.

Here’s the thing, though. Why. It is 2025, and gay sex is legal and celebrated and liberated and accepted and wonderful. Gay bars abound. So, why for the love of god is my local ‘woodland’ littered with used condoms? And we’re not talking one glorious Saturnalian orgy, but every bloody day. Including in freezing cold February!

I begrudge no one a debauched and wonderful and joyful sex life. I am an enthusiastic cheerleader for sex positivity. But for goodness sake, here? And if there is a particular magic to a liaison under the blossoming Blackthorn trees in the Clapham Common woodland on an icy February night, then why could the chaps not at least take their used condoms, tissues, and needles with them when they leave?

Yesterday, the stampede of ParkRunners, today the love litter of London. I’m over it. I want out. I am having no luck finding my rural idyll. A friend sent me the link to a seemingly perfect place, but unless I was willing to pay 12-months rent up front, the owner would not consider me. ‘Ok,’ I replied, ‘and if I am willing to pay 12-months rent up front would she let to me?’ (I’m desperate). That was over a week ago and I have received no response, despite another chasing email.

I forgot to lock my car yesterday evening on returning from the garden centre, caught up in lugging bags of compost through the house. This morning it had been ransacked. Each nook and crevice hung open, seats pulled down. The search had been thorough. Somehow - seriously how, it usually records every twitch - my Ring doorbell saw nothing.

On the pavement, one of a pair of my perfect, cosy Dartmoor Shepherd fingerless mittens had been abandoned and then peed on by a passing someone/thing. The half-eaten bag of Haribo Supermix (so much better than Starmix) from my last drive to Devon was scattered across the pavement. Luckily, I keep nothing of real value in my car. Does anyone these days? Long gone are the pots of parking change that were once a necessary treasure to keep in the arm rest.

Wet dog towels, long abandoned lipgloss, a trillion hair clips, old coffee cups - I tried to make a mental inventory of what had been there that may now be gone. Whatever they found, I couldn’t think it would be of any value or use to them.

I shrugged it off and set off on our dog walk as usual, telling myself it really didn’t matter. There couldn’t have been anything worth worrying about in there. It is mostly soil and grubby tote bags and old cans of Coke. But as I walked I felt a sadness in my chest. However ridiculous, it feels violating. Glove box flung open and rummaged, back chairs pulled down and boot riffled through. Violating.

And then I realised what they had taken. They took the dog’s car seat. It was a nice one. One of the one’s that’s more like a dog bed. It was such a lot of money but Bella is so anxious in the car and - at least on short journeys - this helped. What a shitty thing to take.

Of course, it goes without saying, it could have been so much worse. Thank goodness it is very difficult to steal a car these days. Thank goodness it wasn’t my house. But it put me on edge and made me sad.

I hate it. I hate it here. I love it at home, behind the closed front door, and in my garden. There are flowers starting to bloom and, walking out first thing for morning rounds, the scents and sights brought a huge, genuine smile to my face, and excitement bubbled in my chest. The tulips have suddenly started to gallop up, as if to say ‘just hang on, we’re coming!’. But outside, out there, on the Haribo-strewn streets and in the condom-strewn parks, I don’t like it. I hate it. I want out.

[ UPDATE: minutes after hitting send on this I read a BBC News story about electronic signal jammers so maybe I didn’t leave the car unlocked at all! Small comfort ]

[ UPDATE TWO: they also stole my phone-to-car cable thing. Seriously? What a fucking annoying crime ]