Dirty Old River

When I was a boy I lived in London’s Docklands. Then there were real docks in the East End, working docks which handled imports and exports from London. Despite living in the midst of docks and having many friends whose fathers were dockers, lightermen or watermen, I could only see the river occasionally as most of it was obscured from view by high walls. One of my friends’ father was a policeman, serving on the River police, and he told me that if you fel in the Thames you would have your stomach pumped out, such was the state of the water, filled with poisons and pollution. Continue reading