Charlotta Buxton Posts

Before you moved to London your name was Elisabeth Gustafsdotter. You were born in Torslanda and in your teens you worked as a maid in Gothenburg. You were arrested, you got syphilis, you gave birth to a stillborn daughter. The year you turned 22 you used the money you had inherited when your mother died and escaped to a new country. I wasn’t much older than you when I moved to London, but my city is very different to yours.

I’m sitting on the stairs outside Christ Church in Spitalfields, looking down at the pub you used to visit 130 years ago. It’s 6pm-rush-hour on Commercial Street, the cars and busses chew up the tarmac. Outside the Ten Bells a group of men are drinking pints in the sun, their heads fall back as they laugh, playtime after another day in the shiny office towers around Shoreditch.

Scratch the polished surface and stories of your Spitalfields, the old slum, bubble up. These streets are made to give up their memories of the past almost every night. Thousands of tourists attempt to travel back in time, to hear the clatter of hooves against cobbled stones, to catch the scent of manure, smoke and rotten apples when the cars and buses have quietened and the office crowds have gone home for the evening. Some of those who come here try to solve the mystery that made you famous.

You lived in a small room on 32 Flower and Dean Street. The 29th of September 1888 began like many other days. You cleaned a couple of rooms. You got six pence for the work and in the evening you and your friend Elizabeth Tanner visited one of your favourite pubs, the Queen’s Head. Later you ventured out into the autumn rain on your own to meet a customer. You wore a black skirt and a black jacket with dahlias on the right side. A couple of people remembered you from that night. You hid from the rain in a doorway near Settles Street and kissed an expensively dressed man without eyelashes. You walked on to Black Church Lane where he bought you a bunch of grapes.

At a quarter to midnight you were seen with a man, perhaps another man, on Berner Street. An hour and a quarter later you were dead. You were found in the mud outside the International Men’s Working Club when Louis Diemschutz almost ran you over with his horse and carriage. The wound on your neck was fresh and bleeding. You became Jack the Rippers’ third victim.

Today you’re a legend, bound to the place where you died. Perhaps you, like so many others, moved to London chasing freedom and a life that would allow you to choose who you wanted to be. Perhaps that’s why you lied to your friends and told them your husband and nine children had died when the Princess Alice sunk in the Thames and 600 passengers lost their lives. Perhaps you wanted to tell your own story. Your killer deprived you of that too.

*English translation of my monthly column for SvD Perfect Guide.

*Some of the information about Elizabeth Stride/Elisabeth Gustafsdotter is taken from the excellent book Elizabeth Stride and Jack the Ripper, the life and death of the reputed third victim by Dave Yost.

Photo by Mitch Rosen.

Column London

I have started a new non-fiction project. I want to write about migration and about belonging and excluding and I also want to directly and indirectly write about brexit. The topic of migration is a bit of a prism and many other subjects have been highlighted by the research I’ve done so far. I’m writing down lists of what to explore further – history, archeology, ethics, nationalism, propaganda, economics.

I’ve maybe done about ten percent of all the reading I need to do and I spend most of my spare time in the British Library. I’m not sure what shape the project will take on as it matures. I’m not even sure if there is a publisher out there who will be interested in the project, but I am enjoying the research and am happy to spend my spare time reading about these topics for my own pleasure.

But there is one question that gnaws away at me. The books I’ve been enjoying the most lately have all been personal essays about difficult subjects. Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun, which describes her journey from alcohol-fuelled parties in London to bird watching on Orkney, is one of the best books I’ve read this year. It’s a beautiful blend of memoir, essay and nature writing. The book has had a lot of positive publicity here in the UK and it is climbing the charts, perhaps showing there is an appetite for the personal in non-fiction.

I have also devoured essayist Olivia Laing’s impressive first two books, To the River and The Trip to Echo Spring. Laing has done a lot of research and reading and she reasons intelligently about the subjects she explores. What brings it all together is her persona. These books have filled me with joy because they are intelligent, erudite and human. I feel like I’m learning something new and at the same time acquainting myself with the personality and psyche of another.

So the question is, how much of myself should I allow into the writing? How personal should the tone be? The author needs to be honest with his or her audience. It makes sense to bring that side into a piece when tackling sensitive issues like migration. Potential readers need to know where I stand, they need to know what personal bias I might bring to the project. US journalist and writer Joan Didion always put herself in her writing. Some of the harshest criticism aimed her way argued “the subject is always herself”. But Didion believed (and I’m paraphrasing here) that the only true starting point was the personal, because all we have is our own subjective perspective.

A lot of male writers write deeply personal pieces, Hunter S. Thompson and Ernest Hemingway spring to mind. Did they have the same criticism levelled at them? Were they sneered at for “always writing about themselves”?

I feel a certain amount of fear about bringing the personal into the project. I fear not being taken seriously. I fear criticism. I fear not being able to pull it off making the issues and the quite heavy and difficult topics I’m researching interesting and relevant. But I should know better. There is not much I can do to control the way any of my writing will be received and perceived. I can have my own private thoughts and hopes for a project or a piece of writing, but when I let it go what it becomes is up to those who read it. The only thing I can hope for is that each project makes me a slightly better and more thoughtful writer and that there will always be a new project waiting when the previous one has flown the nest.

Image by Dmitrij Paskevic.

The book 2 Thoughts

September. A return to routine. Time to re-focus as the year prepares for the curtain to drop. The beat speeds up and the days rattle along. The nights fight back. Nature knows what’s coming, the trees drop their leaves and pulls energy back to the core. Autumnal storms whip away the dead weight of summer. I look at the calendar and realise I have to do the same. Only a few months and so much left to do.

I’m looking at all the plans in front of me, wondering where to find any dead weight. We’re moving to a new house. We’re going up to Scotland to walk the hills. And then there is the new writing project. Slim, trim, cut away to make space for all of those things that matter. But I thrive when the focus narrows, when life switches on tunnel vision and there is only one thing that matters. That’s one of the perks of my job as a journalist. The deadlines allow me to dig deep into one topic, to focus on one task and allow everything else to fade. The deadline of a new year sometimes help me to finish the projects I started on lazy spring days when there was so much time and wholesome summer months to look forward to.

I like to think seasonally. To sow the seeds in the spring, toil, relax and allow things to grow in the summer and harvest in the autumn. It never really works out as perfectly as that, because living is messy. But I enjoy the rhythm underneath it all. I did start the new writing project in the spring. I’ve worked throughout the summer. I will keep working and perhaps there will be something to harvest in about a year.

ps. You might have noticed the new layout. Thought it was time for a change.

Image by Andrew Small.

Everyday life The book 2 Thoughts

Every day stuff floats in on the tide and then out again, empty coke bottles, plastic cups, tennis balls, pieces of wood, condoms, plastic bag, the left-overs of life along the Thames. The tidal movement is called ebb and flod in my native Swedish. Not so different from the English, but those are the words that find me first. Nature is where I stumble. I know what a buzzard is in English, but I have to use wikipedia to translate it into Swedish. Ormvråk. I know what a Gös is, but a Zander means nothing.

We went back to Finland for two weeks. One day we visited my grandmother and in the afternoon we stopped by the cottage in her garden, the bagarstuga. There is a great bookshelf in the bagarstuga. The shelves look like half-smiles and the books look like unruly teeth sticking out in all directions. I went there to try to find some extra things to read during the holiday, but most of the books were in Spanish, French, German, Russian and Finnish. My grandmother learned and tried to learn many languages.

The attic at the bagarstuga smells of dry dust, a sweet grainy smell that takes me back to being seven or nine and making up adventure stories in family attics. We looked at the glass vats my grandmother used for making wine and at the old hammers and saws and the spinning wheel that must have belonged to my grandmother’s parents. We also found a few large leather folders wrapped in old newspapers, unwrapped them carefully, untied the strings holding them together and found a selection of pressed wildflowers. Next to the flowers was a tidy description of where and when they had been picked and their name in Swedish and in Latin. My grandmother’s brother’s homework over the summer. My parents also picked and pressed plants during their summer holidays, that’s how they learned the names. Today it’s different. We’ve lost the names so we look at nature without seeing it.

At the summer house I read Ryszard Kapucinski’s reportages from Africa. In one chapter he talks about the difficulty of describing and understanding the nature around him when he doesn’t know the real names of what he’s seeing. Without knowing the local name, how could he understand the essence of the tree he was sheltering underneath. It was a good book and it was a good holiday, but now I’m back in the studio next to the river, trying to remember the English names of some things and the Swedish names of others.

Everyday life London Thoughts

I’m sad and tired. Tired and sad. I’ve been writing about the Jo Cox tragedy for the last two days and the shocking murder of a person who seems to have touched so many lives is eating away at me. Many things have been written over the last few days. There is the personal tragedy, heart-breaking and raw. And then there are the many narratives and political opinions swirling around in the papers and on social media. At the heart of it, at first, there seems to be the random pointless tragedy of life. The bad timing, the wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time, the referral for treatment that took a bit too long, the person who forgot to look in the wing mirror, the raging mob taking things too far. Another narrative sits there as well, the vulnerable lone wolf, radicalised by fever-pitch hate and intolerance in the echo chambers of the web.

The closer I look the blurrier the picture becomes. There, at the heart of it, is also a darkness, a sinister and frightening current pulling us backward in time, erasing the lessons history should have taught us. What happens when a society fans the flames of xenophobia, fear and hate? The more intense these feelings become the harder they will try to find an outlet. At some point there will be an eruption. This kind of fear-mongering has been going on for a long time in a lot of different places. We might laugh at the demagogues on TV in the US, but the same kind of hateful politics exist a lot closer to home. We see it in all of the movements in Europe who suggest that one set of people are better than another and in groups who believe they have a monopoly on the truth.

This is a beast with many heads. There is not just one kind of hate and intolerance out there, each monster emboldens the one next to it, but the core is the same. Fear. Fear that turns into hate that turns into action.

Is this the kind of world we want to live in? Is this the type of society we want to build for ourselves? I pose this question to you because in the end the world we live in is created and shared by all of us. We are all a part of it. The person in their bedroom hiding from it is a part of it, as is the politician and the agitator with a million followers on Twitter. What we consume, how we talk about things with our friends, how we choose to or are able to educate ourselves, how we speak up for or mock others, it’s all apart of it.

We have a choice. We can take a step back from passionate, heartfelt conviction and embrace common sense. We can choose to listen to all kinds of opinions and thoughts, to attempt to bring our heads and not just to our hearts into political debates.

In my day job I write about current affairs. This means I spend a lot of time thinking about the way hate and intimidation has started to dominate our political discussions. I don’t see myself as a political animal or a polemicist. But enough is enough. We need to look at each other, to listen to each other, to see a human being and not a label or a stereotype. Then perhaps we can start having some sensible conversations about where we are and where we’re going.

Image by Oscar Keys/Unsplash.


In my apartment block there is a girl who always sits outside her flat with her laptop. She has a desk set up on the balcony and that seems to be where she works. No matter how early I get up in the mornings she’s there. Today London is cold and she’s wrapped up in a jacket.

I’m a bit envious of this girl. In my head she gets up at six, does yoga and then meditates for a while. Then she drinks a green smoothie and starts writing her morning pages on the balcony. When she’s done she moves onto working on her next novel. Or perhaps she works on some big commission about that year she spent living in a small cottage on a remote Scottish island. Maybe she’s writing a gonzo piece about working as a cleaner in the City.

All of these things of course say more about me than they do about anyone else and writing them down feels a bit embarrassing. But there you go. I’m comparing myself to virtuous-writer-girl because my own daily routine has been a bit messy this year. I feel like I’m lagging behind and trying to catch up. My days have been shunted forward. If we commute into the new studio at rush hour we end up stuck in traffic so on many days we sleep in and leave at ten. Then we work late, because there is no point leaving at rush hour in the evening. We come back late and the cycle repeats itself. For a morning person this is frustrating. I imagine all the people I work with noticing my emails arriving later and later each morning and a big chorus tutting “well, she gets up late”. I know this is totally irrational.

We’re planning to make a final move south of the river, to find a house or an apartment somewhere nearer the new studio. This move will happen at some point in the coming months. Before then it’s difficult to settle on a routine. I used to think I liked change, but the move is making me nervous. It will be like moving to a new city. Further away from friends and places I know.

As I was running these things over in my head a few nights ago the silliness of it all struck me. I’ve been doing that thing again where everything becomes heavy. Events in the past and the future bubble up and turn into big mountains, casting large shadows over everything else. I start putting a lot of weight on certain things, like balancing elephants on the top of a pin. Life is supposed to be light. As I laid awake that night I realised all I had to do to make things easier was to change my perspective. There is no script to follow to the letter. Most of the time no one decision or thing will cast as long a shadow as I think. Wait and see, wait and see, is all I have to tell myself. I don’t have to be perfect.

I’m working from home today. When the sun hits my balcony I’m going to take my coffee outside, close my eyes and breathe.

Image by Lauren Mancke.

Everyday life Thoughts

I’m sorry it’s been a bit quiet here lately. The truth is I’ve been a bit unsettled, slightly more unsettled than I thought I would be, by all this change. I’m still trying to make sense of it all. Of moving and getting to know a new part of London. I’m trying to prepare myself for some of the other changes that are coming. But I’m still in-between. So I’m focusing on the details, the small things.

We’ve moved to the studio next to the river. When we arrive in the morning the banks along the Thames are muddy. In the afternoon the tide flows back and the waves lap at the flood barriers. The water is silty and a muted brown. There are three ducks, two mallards and a hen living somewhere near the studio. Every time I’ve walked down to the water they’ve been there. Sometimes they jump up on the platform further out where the London Port Authority’s boats dock. Sometimes one of the mallards chases the other one and nips at his tail feathers.

On the other side of the river big ships bring sugar to the Tate & Lyle factory. The current one is flying a Maltese flag. Gangly cranes swing over it and back again with the cargo. It’s a calm and peaceful dance. Planes take off from London City Airport behind the factory. The sound lags behind the plane. I notice them when they’re already on their way. When the tail has cleared the factory and the plane is climbing steeply toward the clouds.

I spend a lot of time scanning the water, hoping to one day spot a seal. I’ve been reading about wildlife returning to the Thames. Pods of dolphins have been seen further west and seals have been spotted near the skyscrapers in Canary Wharf. London is showing me its wild and industrial side.

It’s a over month since we moved to the new studio. I’m getting used to it. London twists and turns around me. Everything radiates from the places we call home, all the routes you know lead to the areas where you live and work. My center has been north and east. Slowly it is shifting to the south. London turns around me and I’m learning to see the city from a new perspective.

Everyday life London Thoughts

On March 3 the developers will lock the doors and we have to leave. We found out on Saturday. The rubbish is already taking over the hallways – old chairs, shelves, books, tins of paint, plastic bags and various wooden sticks and metal bits. The people next door left this weekend. The building is quiet. The bathroom and the corridors already have that cold, slightly metallic scent of abandonment.

Soon there will be no more artist studios on Cremer Street. The developer called us an “eyesore on Hackney Road”. And perhaps he was right. This is a crumbling sixties warehouse with graffitied walls, dirty windows and family of stray cats. It doesn’t fit with the new wine bars or the brand new apartment blocks with their straight walls, small windows and box-like flats selling for £600,000.

Soon this asbestos roof will be torn open and the walls chewed to pieces by bulldozers. I’ve seen it happen to the old council blocks up the road. I watched as the front of one of the buildings came down and a bedroom or living room with bright green walls gaped out over Hoxton like in some disaster movie. That was once someone’s home. In a winter the old buildings were gone and it’s been a year since people started leaving plant pots on the balconies and bicycles outside the new apartments.

This was always going to happen to the studio building on Cremer Street. The pub with the English flags in the windows was turned into a wine bar. The boarded up one that used to stand on the corner was demolished before I came here, but is still there on Google Street View like a digital ghost. Small shops selling wholesale bags and shoes are being turned into cafes. The gay club has been shut down. The derelict Georgian terraces have been renovated and decorated to smug perfection. The old hospital is being turned into expensive apartments. The boards around the building site show photographs of the people that might one day live there. Pretty, shiny haired people hanging out on Brick Lane. Aspirational people.

I sometimes wonder if these people are the new Londoners. The politicians talk a lot about “aspirational hard working families”, although no one seems to know who or where these people can be found. London itself is aspirational. The tallest buildings are reaching for new heights, the house prices climbing upward with them. Whoever you are there will always be someone with more money than you, a car more expensive than yours and an apartment more expensively furnished than yours. In this city we’re often reminded that the ladder stretches far above us.

But this aspirational London is not the town I want to live in. I’d like to call this place transitional, always changing, always in motion. London has been burned down, bombed and demolished several times over the last 2000 years. It’s always being rebuilt, the old torn down to make way for the new. But like a magic trick, the city never changes. In the midst of all of this turmoil some buildings have managed to escape the bombs and the bulldozers. Cremer Street and Hackney Road will still be there when the studio is gone. The map will look the same. Some of these roads were built by the Romans.

When this building is gone the stray cats in the studio car park will move on to another spot where people will feed them. The people who move into the new apartments will go to the same cafe we go to for their coffees. The trains will rumble along the tracks on the bridge over Cremer Street. The huge psychedelic graffiti eye on one of the tower blocks further into Hoxton will keep looking out over it all. We will move our studio south of the river and everything changes and nothing changes at the same time.


But just so I remember there is a sticker next to the door that says “Do you wear enough black to be an artist?” I don’t know who put it there. Next to it is a stack of framed prints and screens and then the table which used to be used for screen-printing, but we now mainly use for eating lunches and packing web orders, although not at the same time. On the wall opposite is the fridge and the microwave that should have been cleaned four months ago.

There is a shelf with tea and mugs and the plum vodka Gerry’s brother and his wife gave us and I swigged out of the bottle, whilst sitting on the printing table, one day after we’d had some upsetting news (it’s very tasty, thank you!). There is a shelf on the floor full of water-based paint and spray cans. Underneath the table are stacks of vinyls and screens. Next to the table there are two large and solid plan chests.

Underneath the barred windows there is the Ikea sofa I accidentally broke when I bounced up and down on it after I heard that my book had been accepted by the publisher. Then there is our desk where Gerry and I face each other, it’s covered in papers, printers, random hard-drives and cables. We’ve scribbled messages on it. There is a sleeping fish that Gerry drew on a sticker and placed next to my laptop.

Behind him is the year planner from 2015 and a huge Wall Street print that was damaged when it fell in front of the door and we had to bash the frame in order to get into the studio. Next to him is the Ikea shelving system with clothes rails stacked precariously on top of it and stock hanging below. Then there is the corner crammed full of stock boxes, hiding all the stuff that’s been forgotten about and kept out of sight. Behind that there are paintings, not ours, they were left here by the previous occupant who uses the studio for storage. This is it. The studio. Soon it will be empty and all we will have left are these memories.

Everyday life London Plane Clothing Thoughts

Written yesterday

I’m in Humanities 2 at the British Library. There is a whiny noise, like a storm trapped in a chimney, coming from somewhere behind me. Perhaps it’s Gertrude. She’s brought snow, power cuts and flooding from across the Atlantic. Last night her gusts sounded like a giant’s fist buffeting the walls of my apartment block. All the storms have names now. This winter we’ve had Clodagh and Desmond and Frank. Now we have Gertrude. Perhaps she’s trying to join us here at Humanities 2 through an open vent. Perhaps the sound is just an asthmatic computer. It wasn’t even that windy this morning.

When I asked for my books at the counter they looked at the bookshelf at the far end, under the letter B. It still surprises me. Last time I came here regularly they always went to the shelf with the letter H stuck to it. I’m no longer the person I used to be. The cells in my body have changed. My name has changed. We change and stay the same. I’ve been thinking a lot about identity lately, about losing it and coming back to it. I’ve been thinking about choosing it. We stay who we are through the stories we tell ourselves. Because of our Facebook accounts and our Instagram accounts, those stories are more permanent and visible than ever before. They hold us accountable to who we think we are. Do storms have more of an identity because we give them names? Do they get their own social media accounts?

I shouldn’t be writing about identity. I’m here to read about the London stone and to find out more about the foundations of London. I have a meagre haul of books. The only one I could find with the title “London Stone” is a pamphlet about a completely different London stone in Staines. I think it might be near Heathrow, but I’m not sure. It has the same name, but it’s not the right stone.

I’ve also picked up Daniel Defoe’s essay on the plague and Charles Booth’s account of the London poor. I’m not really sure what I’m going to do with this selection, but I have to start somewhere. Working in the library is like sifting through soil. Eventually a few golden nuggets will fall through. I love working here. It smells of books and dust. It quietens me. Even with Gertrude, or not Gertrude, whining in the vent.

Image by Mario Calvo.


I’ve been meaning to visit the London Stone for a bit over a year. This weekend I decided the time had come. On a Sunday the streets are quiet, the buses glide through normally congested areas and the financial district, where the stone can be found, is silent and empty.

Heavy clouds hung over London, the pavements had a glossy varnish of early morning rain. I took the bus south and looked up the stone on Wikipedia. No one seems to know exactly what its purpose was or how old it is. It was first written about in the 1550s and even then people seemed to think it was old. Some have speculated this was the stone King Arthur pulled Excalibur out of, as if he was a real king and Excalibur a real sword. Others think it might be an index stone, pointing to a stone circle that once stood on the site of St Paul’s Cathedral. My favourite theory is that it’s a sacred terminus stone dedicated to Jupiter. Supposedly these stones were placed in the centre of any Roman city. London started out as Londinium after all, a small outpost of the Roman empire.

The bus took me past dark and slumbering office buildings. Through the windows I sometimes spotted security guards reading morning papers or chatting to cleaners. The cafés and restaurants were quiet and ghostly, their purpose lost on a day when there are no customers and no bright lights. The streets were empty, except for a few packs of tourists in brightly coloured rain jackets.

I got off near Bank and took Walbrook Street south toward Cannon Street. I realised, as you do sometimes in this city, that I had never walked down this street before. In every area, even the ones you know well, there are always new places to explore. London unfurls and stretches out like a coastline, there are labyrinths to explore. How many miles would these London streets add up to? I tried to Google it, but couldn’t find an answer.

I couldn’t remember having walked down Cannon Street before and stopped for a moment, finding my bearings. Then I set off east, looking for 111 Cannon Street, where the stone sits today (it’s been moved a couple of times). Even though I knew it’s now placed within the foundation of a WHSmith I still managed to walk past it and had to turn around at 119 Cannon Street. The stone itself is pretty underwhelming, hidden behind metal bars and glass so murky and dark it’s almost impossible to make out what’s behind it.

I tried to muster up some feelings of respect on solemnity. This was the London Stone after all, the stone that’s been mentioned by different writers and historians over the last 500 years. It’s the mystery foundation stone that might make London crumble and fall if removed. I felt slightly self-conscious. This was clearly a forgotten and unloved landmark. I couldn’t imagine many tourists stopping at this spot or the commuters heading to their offices in the city on a weekday paying it much attention. Feeling underwhelmed I moved on.

I spent the morning exploring the alleys in and around Bank. This is one of the oldest parts of the city. The streets feel heavy, the buildings loom large and tall. They even smell heavy, of dust and stone. Between them runs a maze of alleys where unexpected smaller buildings, restaurants or offices, are crammed between giants.

london city alleys

Two street sweepers were taking break in one of the alleys. Some tourists hurried past on the roads outside. In between the buildings I was mostly on my own. I passed the Jamaica Wine Bar on St Michael’s Alley and spotted a church. The choir was practicing for the morning’s service and I snook in and listened for a while. As a few people arrived for the service I made my way out, feeling like an intruder. I continued on, got lost around Aldgate, the sun broke through the clouds, I walked in vain looking for an open coffee shop. Eventually my homing instinct took me to Spitalfields, where there is always coffee. I sat down and read and wrote for a while, making a promise to myself that I’ll spend more Sunday mornings roaming around the city.