250 Words: The monologue of the Monument

Aww, I remember when I was the tallest building round here. People’d come for
miles to tickle my stairs with their feet for an unrivalled view of London. Higher
than the church spires and steeples we were loftier than angels; equals of the sun
and sky. And I was a telescope, too, with stairs designed for barometric pressure
readings.

Now lazy oiks go round in a circle to get much higher. I’m just a faded icon, away
from the leisurely hub, hidden by newer buildings. A forgotten relic of another time,
passed by suits who barely glance as they hurry to work. I’m not entirely alone and I
know I shouldn’t grumble so much. Tourists and school parties frequent my viewing
platform (caged to prevent more of the suicides that haunt me still).

I’ll always maintain my position as the greatest column. Nelson (and some others)
may have his poncy square and a history of protest but the latter has been banned
and what is the point of a square if it cannot be viewed from above, along with the
other nice additions in his neighbourhood. “A waste of time and money,” I say (just
don’t mention the Berlin Victory Statue).

And Trajan (the best of the Rome brethren), let’s face it, was only built so people
could see an opulent (read pointless) bronze tiled roof. Though I hear the frieze is
nice.

I still long, though, for the heyday of youth before the big buildings came and buried
me.