PHONEBOXLITERARYSTORY NIGHTINTHECITY PHONEBOXLITERARYSTORY by Mary Gray of Turvey
  BIG BEN strikes 3 a.m. The police o icer on du  outside St Stephen's Gate nods a sti  good night to a minister scuttling from the House, shoulders drooped with fatigue, arms stretched by briefcases bulging with papers to be read before the House rises next day. The policeman squares his shoulders and rocks on his heels. He has more than two hours to go. He must remain vigilant.
clothes are picked up and whooshed o  in limousines. Theatregoers, having enjoyed a late dinner, are fractious wanting to be home and vie each other for taxis. Students, with the boundless energy of youth, hoop and hotter at each other across the road as they search for new excitements.
In Trafalgar Square, queues for the late night buses lengthen. People stand in ones and twos, heads down, hands in pockets. Others gather into gaggles, gossiping and giggling. Buses come and go like mobile
food thrown carelessly in the gutter. Peace reigns, shattered only by the sudden siren of a passing police car.
But night in London is short. All too soon the early shift yawns, stretches and sets about the business of the coming day. Newspaper vans deliver; trucks, to clear the detritus of overindulgence, hose the streets; cleaners clattering their keys, open up to spit and polish; lorries lumber by as they try to get through the capital before the morning rush.
In the back streets the greasy spoons open one by one, the metal shutters shrieking and groaning. Bleary-eyed waitress hurriedly re­ don their aprons to serve those who want breakfast before the sun is up. They tight fryers, butter tower blocks ofbread, and put ketchup, salt, pepper and coleman's mustard on tables made beautiful by plastic flowers in plastic vases. Taxi drivers, back from Hendon, Highgate and Hammersmith, throw themselves down exhausted, opening early editions of the tabloids while waiting for their 'Full English, two slices and tea'.
Back in Westminster, Big Ben strikes 5.30. The shift changes and the policeman on duty outside the House relaxes his position.
He can go home. The night is o icially over.
Nothing stirs in the Government
departments that line Downing Street and
Whitehall. Civil servants, from clerks to funfairs, jolly in the dark night, their
Permanent Secretaries, have tong gone, leaving the problems of the intray for those of hearth and home.
banners broadcasting 'Bow', 'Bromley' and 'Brixton'. No one will be home before morning!
The Tube stations are long since closed and shuttered. In their doorways sit the
All is quiet. This part of London sleeps; its
head dropped on its chest. But a short taxi
ride away, the West End is still winding homeless in their nomadic homes of
cardboard boxes and newspaper, quilts and blankets courtesy of the Sal  Army. Here, no one wit[ steep tonight white it's cold and comfordess - the dispossessed wait until morning until the City heats up. The night is the time for strong ale and thoughts of better times.
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down, still putting in its curlers and putting out the cat. The last few customers leave the restaurants. The waiting sta  sigh with relief as doors are closed and locked, tills counted, aprons hung on pegs, and 'closed' signs put on doors.
Out in the street, a number of people are
stilt about. Lovers, unwitting to say
'goodnight', dawdle entwined. White-faced,
red-eyed revellers who have over-indulged,
meander, mournfully contemplating a hush has descended. Rats slip noiselessly tomorrow's hangovers. partygoer's in fine along, enjoying an early breakfast of  st  ·-·-·-·-·-·,
Later, when every neon tight has been extinguished, every pleasure palace closed, all of London is locked against the night and
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