The 'Eart Comes 'Ome

Piccadilly Circus was jammed with Londoners and country folk braving showers in summer frocks and flannels. Red bunting, dripping in the rain, hung from the steel railings, and gramophone records blared London Pride. In a clean white apron and battered hat, wizened old Polly Beecham, who has sold her flowers at the foot of the statue for 50 years, was agog with excitement. "I loike 'im," she exclaimed as the returning hero was hoisted into place. "'E's my companion, see?" A dewy-eyed lass in the crowd confessed her devotion just as shamelessly. "I cyme all the w'y from Ilford 'cause I'd never seen 'im," she cried. "After all, London is the 'eart of the world, an' Piccadilly is the 'eart of London, and Eros is the 'eart of Piccadilly."

Last week, on his 54th birthday, after a long wartime evacuation, Eros, the winged, aluminum god of love, returned to his Piccadilly pedestal. Cheers greeted him as he drove up in a lorry. A drunk tossed a carnation with the words "From one Eros to another," and ducked away from alert bobbies. Flower-Girl Polly was ready with 15 fresh roses to garland her hero. An official stopped her. "A bit frivolous," he said. "Got to draw the line somewhere, y'know, but we'll hang 'em on the scaffolding." There was some dull speechmaking. But what the crowd wanted most of all was a good long look at their old friend. Armed with a brand-new bow, he looked happy to be back. "In his exile," mused London County Council's Lord Latham, "Eros must often have wondered what was happening in Piccadilly." The crowd laughed knowingly. "I am not going into details."

The old street had not changed much. The prostitution trade was as brisk as ever while Eros was hiding out. But if the god had deserted his old post for the duration, he had certainly not been idle elsewhere. Last week, just before Eros returned to Piccadilly Circus, Health Minister Aneurin Bevan was able to announce that, for the first time in 25 years, Britain's birth rate had overtaken its death rate.

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