Kathryn Gilbert
Winds howl as they blow through London’s famous Covent Garden neighborhood, shaking the
creaking awnings of the many shops that line the narrow cobblestone streets. Pedestrians shuffle
across the street from store to store, aggressively holding onto their wool hats and scarves to
make sure they do not join the sticks and leaves that are getting tossed into the whipping air. A
small elderly man emerges around a corner with his eyes squinted shut to avoid getting debris
from the wind in his eyes. His small umbrella flips inside-out and he accepts defeat, letting out a
frustrated sigh. The man discards the umbrella entirely, letting it float away into the gray sky
through London’s West End to never be seen again.
Crown & Anchor pub sits steadily on a street corner, serving as Covent Garden’s very own
lighthouse in the gloomy weather. Its warm light floods the barren streets so that anyone who
dares to brave the outdoors is able to find shelter by following the light’s beacon. The pub’s
flower box-lined windows are fogged up from the constant chatter of its patrons. The patrons fill
the air with laughter and sounds of “cheers!”
A grand wooden bar lines the back wall of the pub. Red leather upholstery tops the many bar
stools lining its counter and pendant lights hang illuminating the glass cases lined with liquor and
wine. Small tables fill the remaining space on the uneven floorboards and smells of cigarette
smoke, leather and cologne occupy the pub’s air space, creating an authentic London pub
environment.
It is 6:22 in the evening and a group of four burly men burst through the large wooden door of
Crown & Anchor. The wind follows them inside and slicks back the long brown hair of a
sophisticated young woman sitting nearest to the door. She shuts her eyes in reaction to the wind,
gripping her loose knit sweater and readjusting it. Her dainty pearl necklace glistens in the light
of the pub. The woman glares at the men sharply through her cat-eye style glasses and
reluctantly turns to reface the woman across from her, waving her hands around theatrically
expressing her annoyance with their disruption.
The men laugh loudly as they struggle to shut the door against the wind’s brutal force. Shaking
out their umbrellas, they survey the pub looking for a place to sit. They settle on a small corner
table in the corner of the bar. After removing their large trench coats, the largest man stands to
signal for a waiter. He screeches his chair back across the floor, drawing the attention of the
young couple seated at the table closest to them. His appearance is striking: red hair and a bushy
red beard with bright green eyes. His wide shoulders are covered by a thick blue knit sweater
with small raindrops lining its collar, yet to dry in the pub’s heat. As he searches for a waiter he
looks up at the small television above the bar airing the evening news.
“Would you look at that?” he says chuckling to his friends, “They’re declaring this a red weather
warning! Seemed like a normal day in London to me.” His friends laugh along with him and the
short curly-headed waiter finally reaches their table. They all order a classic pint of beer and
return to laughing and joking around with each other. The locals of London are used to this
horrendous weather. They are just delighted to be enjoying their typical Friday evening in a pub
after a long week of work.
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