Big Adventures with Paula McGuire


TIME, I’m reliably informed, waits for no man. Well, at least this particular patriarchy works in women’s favour. Not that I would ever expect Greenwich to reset its big and little hands to dance to my own circadian rhythm; no, I’m more than happy to follow the meridian conga line on that one. But sometimes, just having a little control over where exactly the party dissects my day would be useful.

So, you see, I really couldn’t pass up the opportunity this week to finally conquer time – or at least tame its understudy.

The O2 in south-east London isn’t just a temple to the gods of entertainment and retail, it also stands as a monument to something much more enduring.

Completed in 1999 as the millennium’s less poisonous bug, the dome was designed not so much as a timepiece but as a piece of time. It measures 365 metres in diameter and has 12 support towers. The O2’s connections with the calendar would make even Pope Gregory sinfully envious.

Beneath that 52-metre-high big top, restaurants, a cinema, exhibitions and the ever-popular arena pay homage to the conduits of our own time. And, walking through its sprawling corridors for the first time, it was easy to understand how a day could get away from you among its offerings. Of course, I hadn’t travelled 400 miles to witness the delights of modern recreation; I’m a hedonist, for sure, but only when my head is on it. The venue instead offered a vertical dimension to what might have been an otherwise flat day, in the form of Up at The O2, which turns the glass fibre ceiling into a floor on which Lionel Richie really could dance.

Tucked around the side of the dome’s white expanse, Up at The O2’s base camp invites urban mountaineers to begin a one-way voyage over the top. Wait, that sounded more menacing than I intended – it’s a return trip; the second leg just isn’t quite as hilly as the first.

Joining the rest of the 10-strong group in the building’s quirky classroom, I signed away my cares while a safety video played, reminding us of the delights of the 90-minute experience to come, and our responsibilities to the gene pool of keeping ourselves on the right side of the Darwin Awards. Don’t mess with the securely fitted harness? My sense is as common as a double-barrelled butler, but even I can’t argue with that logic.

True to his title, our guide, Martin, directed us towards the equipment room, where gilets, harnesses and strangely comfortable climbing shoes were dished out and donned like a Gaga meat-dress. The look was completed with a climb latch connected to our harnesses, which, when left to swing freely could crack a patella like a highly-strung cashew. Luckily, we were advised against before a knee was ever capped.

Only a quick skip up a flight or two of stairs and we were ready to be attached to the roof’s continuous cable system. Just to be clear, the skip is optional; the health and safety less so.

All hooked up with somewhere to go, there was only time for Martin to remind us that, although the pretty blue walkway has a certain bounce to it, it is not, in fact, a trampoline, before we all lined up to Tigger our way to the top. I have to admit to a character flaw: when a call goes up for a volunteer, my arm develops sentience and finds its way into the air like it just don’t care so, of course, I was first up to be clipped to the cable and to step on to the walkway.

One hand on the guide rail, the other pressing the appropriate lever to keep the climb latch moving, I clambered, more or less gracefully up the 28 degree incline. When more failed me, I kept on with less.

Spread out at a safe distance to make sure the domino effect of which Martin had warned wouldn’t take the entire set quickly down, we made our way towards the viewing platform, enjoying the reduced strain on lazy legs as the camber levelled out gradually.

The weather held, as did my nerve, and soon I was unshackled and free to enjoy the 360-degree panorama of London from The O2’s summit. Martin was on hand to fill in the crevasses in my pathetic sense of direction, ensuring that I no longer confused Canary Wharf with that guy from Star Trek. I smiled like the girl from the flyer as I walked around the balustrade, gazing out on a city skyline of which I was briefly a part.

Even as a slight drizzle reached our elevated position, only hair was dampened, as my enthusiasm for the downward climb remained as dry as ever. At its steepest point, the walkway challenges its climbers to a 30-degree descent, which, trust me, is nowhere near a right angle even for someone this unsure of foot. Reaching the unyielding joy of tarmac once more, my feet gave up their grip on comfortable footwear and reclaimed their grip on reality.

I have no idea how long we were Up at The O2, how much the world had turned since our ascent but, one thing’s for sure, those minutes spent looking down on the spectacle of London really were second to none.