This is where my children like to go to buy clothes, to see other people and to hang out. This is Westfield, the gigantic Australian mall, by the Olympic site in Stratford. It may be a function of my age but I feel like an alien here. Shopping is a warrior's pursuit. Without the correct armour you're dead meat. The logic of the airport extended. There is no outside here. My ten year old son can negotiate Game and JD Sports without flinching. I need a bucket of extra-strength Cappucino and the promise of a bookshop as sanctuary.
Within the temple the illusion holds up pretty well and the delirium can be maintained. Once you get near the edges, the exits, the car park stairs crappy 'reality' breaks in - fag ends, litter and the perfume of piss. Walking out into surrounding Stratford requires a mental adjustment, a decompression to prevent the bends. If you travel on foot quarter of a mile from the site you are suddenly in amongst the rusting leftovers of once thriving canal-based industry and gigantic mounds of car parts. Scrap metal yards still flourish in patches - probably more than ever, given the price of metal.
It's funny how it comes into view - this world made of money. This gigantic system that must never be allowed to stop.This world of spectacles - Queen Elizabeth II must carry on because her people demand it, 1000's gather to feel part of something, neighbours come together because of her, then there will be football, then the Games.
Should I tell my son that it's all dying? Should I tell him that it can't last? I could at least suggest he learns to grow his own vegetables. In the meantime I'll go and wait for him while he looks at DS games.