There’s something slightly sinister about Canary Wharf, or
as a friend of mine likes to call it – Gotham City. I think this description sums the place up
perfectly, bringing to mind an unreal comic book glossiness of glass and steel
together with a darkly gothic and threatening undertone. Walk through the underground marbled floored arcades
early in the morning and the native edifice dwellers can be seen, glass eyed and
unseeing as sleepwalkers. Obligatory disposable
coffee cup in one hand they can be seen striding to their destinations,
avoiding collision by some unknown orchestrating force like ants in the amazon. Synthesized buttery toast and coffee perfuming
the warren pathways, flanked on either side by gaudy footballer fish tank shop
window displays and enticing video advertisements played on loop down the
centre of the walkways. The security guards
are smartly uniformed, complete with radio headsets and large black-leather
belts that could easily take the weight of a pistol, and watchful. More like ex-Soviet special service agents
than the stereotypical shopping centre security. One of them looks like she stepped out of a
Lara Croft video game complete with a long platinum plait pulled back tightly
that looks like it could be used to silently strangle.
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