There have always been two London’s at dawn for me.
There is the London night you stay up through: here dawn
comes as an assault, every crashing of bottles into the early
morning rubbish wagons a reminder of one’s sinfulness; the
seeping of light into the sky a seeping of shame into the spirit
and a finger-wagging rebuke for all that self-indulgence. You
slink to bed to keep that dawn out and lie trembling beneath
the covers wishing the wicked velvet night had lasted for ever.

And then there is the London dawn one wakes up to. It fills one
with energy, purpose and self-belief. Every early morning van
driver is your friend, the new light shines on your city and your
pleasure in living. You own the dawn, you are proud of yourself
as you stride through the parks filled with righteous zest.

But how the arrival of a new day feels for those who sleep
outside through the weeks in all seasons I cannot guess:
perhaps for them dawn is a mixture of both desolation and
hope. Part of them might despise a new day that will soon
remind them that a world of working, confident, prosperous
others from whom they have somehow become disconnected
will soon be marching past them without a second glance,
while another part might welcome the sun that chases away
the shadows of a dangerous or frozen night with its threats of
violence, turf wars, insults and fear.

I would like to think dawn brings hope and consolation and
mercy. But of course only we can do that.There have always been
two London’s at dawn for me.
There is the London night you stay up through: here dawn
comes as an assault, every crashing of bottles into the early
morning rubbish wagons a reminder of one’s sinfulness; the
seeping of light into the sky a seeping of shame into the spirit
and a finger-wagging rebuke for all that self-indulgence. You
slink to bed to keep that dawn out and lie trembling beneath
the covers wishing the wicked velvet night had lasted for ever.

And then there is the London dawn one wakes up to. It fills one
with energy, purpose and self-belief. Every early morning van
driver is your friend, the new light shines on your city and your
pleasure in living. You own the dawn, you are proud of yourself
as you stride through the parks filled with righteous zest.

But how the arrival of a new day feels for those who sleep
outside through the weeks in all seasons I cannot guess:
perhaps for them dawn is a mixture of both desolation and
hope. Part of them might despise a new day that will soon
remind them that a world of working, confident, prosperous
others from whom they have somehow become disconnected
will soon be marching past them without a second glance,
while another part might welcome the sun that chases away
the shadows of a dangerous or frozen night with its threats of
violence, turf wars, insults and fear.

I would like to think dawn brings hope and consolation and
mercy. But of course only we can do that.