A moment of folly in the captial

In the mad rush and noise that characterises the streets of London, it's all easy to become alienated and disillusioned by the assault of glass, steel and LED screens that have transformed this once ancient and historic city into a modern metropolis of the new age of technology and communications. The beating, throbbing life of the city is at once exhilarating and terrifying - a vast expanse of flashing lights and blaring sirens that assault the senses of the innocent bystander and beat them into begrudging submission. Whatever happened to the London of the imagination? The London of history? Long gone are the quaint sights of gentlemen in top hats and tails; of bawdy whorehouses and elegant cocktail parties; of the scent of tobacco smoke and the tinkle of piano keys. Indeed, everything that was once associated with the wonderful and faintly peculiar characteristic of being part of British society seems to have withered and died in a city that is now more famous for its crowds of unruly tourists than its Nancys, Sweeney Todds or Bertie Woosters.

And yet this city never fails to surprise and amaze. Sitting in the warmth of a rather shabby little bar in the heart of Soho last night, I was delighted to find myself serenaded by the doleful strains of Tom Jones' "Delilah" that were banged out on a decrepit looking piano in the corner which I had assumed was there merely for decoration. As I listened to the familiar plonk plonk of the keys, the whole pub began to resonate with the sound of singing - a low, mournful hum that united this handful of strangers in a common musical cause, only to die away as suddenly as it had begun. It was a strange, disembodied sort of singing: seemingly to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, almost as if it was growing organically out of the man whose fingers were manipulating the keys of the piano with such gusto. In the silence that followed the end of the piece, and before the commencement of another (an Elton John number, if I recall correctly), it occurred to me that perhaps the infamous British eccentric was not lost after all, and it was ordinary people like these, in this ordinary bar in Soho that in their own small way have continued the weird and wonderful cultural tradition that is 'Britishness'.

Later, as I left the pub to make my way home in the crisp evening air, I could still hear the gentle hum of the music drifting through the cold, dark streets of London town.

"Why, why why, Delilah?..."