16 Photographs of London Strangers

Some Londoners photographed around the city for your Tuesday morning:

The People of Soho: The CreativePhoto: Artist, designer and composer it’s Jerome in Tyler’s Court, Soho by Pete Zelewski

stranger # 135
Photo: This is Berry having a coffee at Maison Bertaux on Greek Street in Soho by Stretch1000

That Forties Look
Photo: That Forties look in Covent Garden by John Kortland

stranger # 139
Photo: Nilu just off St Giles High Street by Stretch1000

Why Ride When You Can Walk
Photo: Why ride when you can walk, St. Mary Axe by John Kortland

stranger # 46
Photo: Christina works for a dance music and clubbing magazine. She was photographed near Regents Canal, Hackney by Stretch1000

Call Me
Photo: Advertising agency receptionist Melanie in Grape Street, Bloomsbury by Pete Zelewski

Brick Lane Street Style
Photo: Brick Lane street style by LLO

stranger # 47
Photo: Strangers under a bridge in Hackney near Kingsland Road by Stretch1000

London Street Portrait
Photo: London street portrait by 67Jewels

Fringe Benefit  [Explored #109]
Photo: Fringe benefit by John Kortland

stranger # 49
Photo: Peter, a painter, on Kingsland Road by Stretch1000

Photo: Abby by Paki Nuttah

London Street Portrait
Photo: London street portrait by r3cycl3r

Stranger # 37
Photo: Satara is a half-Italian, half-Thai graphic design student from Central Saint Martin’s Collage of Art photographed by Great Titchfield Street by Stretch1000

Country Girl
Photo: Fashion marketing graduate and budding entrepreneur, it’s Stephanie in Floral Street, Covent Garden by Pete Zelewski

Guest Post: Dear London…

Words and photo by Ramble who has come from India to enjoy the little things London has to offer for a while. She blogs here and has allowed me to repost this entry to share with you because I loved it.

Dear London,

It is difficult not to fall in love with you.
I came here expecting regimented routine where things never go wrong, where buses always run on time. But was relieved to find dug up railways, bank men who want you to come on another day because they want to go home [at 3.30 pm]. And bus drivers who will decide to just terminate the route because they felt like it.
They said you were rich. But going through your secondhand markets where even the worst junk has takers, I doubt it. But in the infinite number of people from myriad cultures and countries who float through your streets, you are definitely rich. [I say that at the cost of sounding cheesy].
While looking at the supermarket aisle and sharing appalling sighs over the price of a jar of peanut butter with an African lady, I feel a certain richness. In India, one never used to carry poverty on one’s sleeve with so much pride.
In the hospital-like smell which emits from the silence in your tubes where crowds exist in negation of any sound, there could be a need to reach your tribe – your little China or Poland or Senegal or England or India or Egypt. Maybe when the tube drops you at your “country” the silence will burst open in a bottle of drink, a cup of tea or a prayer.
I love asking people on your streets for the way. The stiff faces open up in a smile or a scratch of the chin. Every one of them tries their best to find out the way for a stranger. In that utopian state of mind of maplessness, one can ignore the helpful and not so helpful of your road signs.
I hate the broken bits of beer bottles on your streets, wondering when will they break open my only pair of shoes. If you are anyway risking your liver, why not risk the intake of a little plastic? But since your shops sell alcohol cheaper than fruits or vegetables, my concern can only end up in the dustbin.
Well, I am not looking for a happily ever after with you; though you are charming and mysterious, complicated and easy, rich and poor, beautiful and worn out, handsome and trampy. I need a bit more ownership of “my place” if I ever find it. Wouldn’t ever want to get into a “where did u come from” argument with you where my colour and attire might some day become stones around my neck. “My place”, if I ever find it, would have neither commitment phobia nor Othello syndrome.
But while I am here, let me sit by your river sides, watch your crowds float by, sigh at the impossible prices inside your shops, wade through your unemployment scene, and whisper to you – that it is difficult not to fall in love with you.

A Small World Afterall

Back in September, I took a Saturday stroll through Portobello Market and came across a man wearing posters, campaigning for animal rights. I wrote a post about the little amusing thing that happened when I walked by. The gentleman who I wrote about found my blog at random two months later and commented on that same post, “I am the man who wears the posters. I came across your lovely remarks by accident…. etc.”

I asked him if he would like to write a guest post on my blog about his experiences campaigning around Portobello for the last two years, but he declined, saying it wouldn’t be particularly interesting. Instead, he sent me a photo of himself in action at Portobello Market.

I love how, in a city of 7 million, it is still possible to connect with strangers.

Sir John, Famous Flower Seller of London


This is “Sir John, famous flower seller of London”. After I took this photo, he smiled at me and asked if he could take a photo of me. He handed me his bucket of flowers and positioned me in front of his friend’s horse. He asked where I was from and told me about his hip replacements (He’s 61 and it runs in his family). After that, he asked me out for coffee. When I politely declined, told me I was “very beautiful” and handed me a pink rose and wished me on my way.


Mulled Wine Toes

A girl with a porcelain face, void of emotion, passes me on the pavement every day. In the morning, our paths cross around number 102 on my street; on the way home, near house 17. She has perfectly straight chestnut hair that rests on her shoulders. Her jeans stretch down long thing legs without a wrinkle. They nearly hide the wooden wedges, but never the tips of her rounded shoes, coloured as if she were a ballerina who danced on a stage flooded with mulled wine.

Perhaps I see her more than most of my friends, but that is all I know.