Autobiographical Work from the 1970s Essay

Peacocks

Late summer sunshine warms the busy footpath with its afternoon glow. Sparkling sandstone lights shimmer on the slabs, giving the impression that London’s streets are paved with gold. Multilingual chatter fills the air, as people pass on their way to the theatres and nightlife of Leicester Square; parading their finest 1970’s, West End fashion. The young men like strutting peacocks; as they exhibit their mating attire of coiffured hair, body hugging shirts, flared trousers and platform boots. Girls tottering on over-high heels, in hot pants and crop tops, revealing as much flesh as they are able; while staying, barely, within the bounds of decency. Hoping that some hunky male will sweep them off their pressure blistered feet.

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We are on Shaftesbury Avenue. My friend, Tommy Thompson, stops to ask two of the peacocks for a light for his cigarette. Disinterested, I gaze at the pavement. The one with the German accent utters a greeting. My hand shields my sun narrowed eyes as I look at them. The other peacock flashes me a lopsided grin. My attention has not only been captured, it has been imprisoned; he is, undoubtedly, the most beautiful man I have ever seen.

Dazed, I accompany Tommy to a small cafe. We drink coffee in silence as I scan my subconscious for the tiniest memory of my mystery man. In my mind, I ‘glimpse’ his shoulder length dark blond hair, his tall frame; that grin. I search for anything I may have missed, during those first mind blowing moments, when I met him.

London is a big place, so I accept that I will probably never see him again. Never having been one for living in a fantasy world, I quell the feelings that stir within me, and lose myself in life.

Marble Arch

Alan’s muscular fram…

…e I would think he was dead and decomposing. Only the brave or extremely desperate partake of Bill’s fare.

The top floor is the nightclub. A twenty foot square room with a drinkless bar and a juke box. Bench seats run around the walls as far as the communal toilet. Communal, because it has no wall. It’s pointless closing the door, because everyone using the club can see you on the throne. You go to the toilet in pairs, so that the other person can stand in front of you while you relieve yourself, giving you a minimal amount of privacy. On a plus side, the music is good, and you can dance until seven in the morning.

It was here I met a nice Scots lad, who I started dating. Andy was a real gentleman. His only fault, was being head over heals in love with a Scots girl, named Brenda. He was so hung up on her, the only thing I had in my favour was having the same name.

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