Bank holidays are usually quiet, soporific affairs for me, spent at home on my computer or watching TV. Yesterday, however, was another matter altogether.  John stayed here overnight on Sunday, and it was he who came up with the fascinating idea of going to the Notting Hill carnival on Monday. Of course, me being me, I had already considered going up there on my own on Sunday, just to check it out, but both my parents and Serkan had put me off the idea as far too risky. Going there with someone, seemed another matter.

As I’ve said here before, getting into central London is now easier than ever thanks to the Elisabeth Line, so at about midday yesterday J and I headed to Woolwich, getting off at Paddington. We were there in about twenty minutes, and almost immediately were hit by a wall of sound and human energy unlike anything I had ever encountered. It was like that part of London had lost it’s mind! The streets were closed to traffic. and thousands upon thousands of people were walking about in all sorts of extravagant costumes, banging drums, singing and hooting horns. I was automatically mesmerised: I loved it – London had done it again, and showed itself to be the wonderful, vibrant, intoxicating place I know it to be.

If I’m honest, though, I must admit there were times yesterday when I grew quite scared. John and I walked through the crowds for a couple of hours, and I was scared to death of loosing him. I don’t know that part of London very well, and loosing contact with my friend amid all those people would have meant I would be in a lot of trouble. Thus I spent most of yesterday afternoon piloting my powerchair, concentrating rigidly on Johns arse as he lead me through the streets of Notting Hill. Mind you, it wasn’t that bad a view: there were many, many more arses to look at, sat at arse-hight in my powerchair, most far rounder and far more exposed than John’s!

One way or another I managed to stay with John all afternoon, and together we had a good tour of Carnival. I was struck most by how loud it was: some of the music was so loud, so throbbing, I could barely hear myself think. Yet that was the point. It was a party – a celebration of Caribbean culture, and indeed wider, human culture too. There were so many happy, charming people there that I couldn’t help being blown away, in spite of the noise.

After two or three hours up there (I quickly lost track of time) John and I went to meet Mitch, who we had planned to hook up with earlier, but he got delayed. The rest of the afternoon was spent in a far quieter spot, talking over some beer. As the evening drew in, I realised what a wonderful day it had been. I had never seen London like that before, closed to traffic and transformed into an intoxicating maelstrom of humanity. I resolved to go back next year, possibly in costume. I also couldn’t help wondering whether Lyn had ever been to carnival; I don’t think she did and she never mentioned it, but L would have loved it.

Due to a slight delay on the tube we got back here quite late but all in one piece. I had somehow survived the day! More to the point, the metropolis had once again made my jaw drop at all it’s richness and diversity; it had once again given me an experience which I can never possibly forget. Notting Hill carnival is about migration, about welcoming people coming here not just from the Caribbean but all over the world. It is a celebration of the spirit of diversity and inclusion which London is founded upon. For all the crowds and noise, for all the stress of keeping sight of John’s arse, I loved it, and now can’t wait until next year’s.