London Big Ben
Smoke fills the air and the freshness turns to coal. All the People are pushing and shoving against one another. From up here they look like ants around a bread crumb, fighting to survive. With all the noise I can hardly hear the clock strike six.
It is Monday morning, I can feel that winter is arriving, and, as usual, it is very busy. “Charles Johnson” dad calls out. He says that he calls me by my full name because it shows a sign of pride. Dad’s full name is Nick Johnson but most people know him as Nicky Jo the clock man. We live close to the great bell of the clock, at the north end of the great palace of Westminster. When I gaze outside my window all I see is the enormous clock tower in the horizon. Apparently it is the largest of its kind, four-faced chiming clock. It stands a full 96m tall and has Gothic architecture to it. One of the architects includes Charles Barry, one of dad’s great friends, which I was named after.
Servicing and maintaining the Big Ben was dad’s main job but, after the catastrophic incident, that is no longer possible. Now it is up to me to do the dirty work. I work around the clock, I am not moaning, just stating facts. Luckily I enjoy mechanical jobs. On some days while cleaning the clock’s face, children stare at me with blank faces on their way to school. These are the days I wish I could join them just to be seen as normal.
The clock is a block away from home. When looking outside the view is on the ancient train station that was built about a century back. I walk through it every day at least twice, sometimes even more. Walking through the station can sometimes be a disaster, children crying, parents stressing and business men just walking along with no emotion. With all these people around it may get very crowded at stages. That is why I have to make sure I am there before the crowd, which arrives at six.
The week flew by and it was already Friday morning. This morning I overslept and the day could not have started any
It is Monday morning, I can feel that winter is arriving, and, as usual, it is very busy. “Charles Johnson” dad calls out. He says that he calls me by my full name because it shows a sign of pride. Dad’s full name is Nick Johnson but most people know him as Nicky Jo the clock man. We live close to the great bell of the clock, at the north end of the great palace of Westminster. When I gaze outside my window all I see is the enormous clock tower in the horizon. Apparently it is the largest of its kind, four-faced chiming clock. It stands a full 96m tall and has Gothic architecture to it. One of the architects includes Charles Barry, one of dad’s great friends, which I was named after.
Servicing and maintaining the Big Ben was dad’s main job but, after the catastrophic incident, that is no longer possible. Now it is up to me to do the dirty work. I work around the clock, I am not moaning, just stating facts. Luckily I enjoy mechanical jobs. On some days while cleaning the clock’s face, children stare at me with blank faces on their way to school. These are the days I wish I could join them just to be seen as normal.
The clock is a block away from home. When looking outside the view is on the ancient train station that was built about a century back. I walk through it every day at least twice, sometimes even more. Walking through the station can sometimes be a disaster, children crying, parents stressing and business men just walking along with no emotion. With all these people around it may get very crowded at stages. That is why I have to make sure I am there before the crowd, which arrives at six.
The week flew by and it was already Friday morning. This morning I overslept and the day could not have started any