The Prisoner of Limehouse

Today I am held prisoner in Limehouse. Not detained here by some global pandemic, or some new ridiculous measure by the Conservative party. Not held here by some Victorian golem, but surrounded by one of the most wonderful displays of humanity London provides each year. 

 Last October, I set off one Sunday to get my hair cut in Canary Wharf, oblivious to the fact that one of the country’s greatest sporting events was taking place around me. My hair may have become shorter, but my trip home was immeasurably longer as I tried to work my way back to my boat. 

 Today, forewarned is forearmed, and I’ve loaded the fridge with food and spent most of the morning, reading the Sunday papers and catching up on correspondence. It’s a dull, damp, rainy day and yet thousands of people have taken to the street for the London Marathon. Not just runners, but an astounding gallimaufry of supporters, cheering encouragement and filling the air with boosting catcalls and primeval cries to drive the runners forward. 

 The marathon route passes both sides of the Limehouse Basin. First, the runners have come across Tower Bridge from Greenwich, turned right through Wapping and run along Narrow street, which edges the Thames on the south side of the basin. 

 It’s got to early afternoon and I decide even on a day such as this I should try to achieve some of my 10,000 steps. Walking around the marina, I venture out onto Narrow Street where now at 3 pm, it’s the stragglers who are making their way past Gordon Ramsay’s restaurant and Ian McKellen’s pub to set off around the Isle of Dogs. 

 There is a phone called Dave and plenty of people who settle down to a pace just above walking, but this doesn’t stop some beer fuelled supporters, yelling their names and urging them on. 

 It’s a short walk for me through the park to get to Commercial Road, but the runners will have completed another seven miles since running along Narrow street. 

 And the support is spectacular. The road is packed. Glasses of beer are held up, cheering the runners. I spotted a T-shirt with the slogan “Dementia Cares” on a large guy who is obviously just really beginning to suffer. Across his chest, written large, are the two words"for dad" It brings tears to my eyes to see the exertion on his face, and to know that he has a dad worth all this suffering. 

 There are tutus, onesies, lycra, and cardboard creations. The Commercial Road is awash with a rainbow of determination. The amount of money raised will be phenomenal. The number of miles travelled will be enormous. And the amount of support given both financially and vocally will show this city at its best. 

 Wisely, the demonstrators have stayed well clear of this phenomenal show of human kindness and goodwill. Today is for the people of London, for the runners, for the cheerers on, and for all of us to take pride in. It’s a day to be a proud prisoner of Limehouse.