Monday, October 17, 2005
All civilised people agree: one weekends in South London. Saturday, promenading on Lordship Lane and its environs, I saw in quick succession two of my childhood heroes: Stephen Frost and Jerome Flynn, stars of my favourite comedy and comedy-drama respectively. I would have said something to them, but they were deep in conversations, and besides, it was fourteen years too late for me to care.
Sunday, and Greenwich stirred my naval blood: and I liked London and I liked England. I stood beside the observatory; I looked out over the city; my breast swelled and I shouted, at the top of my voice:
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
I didn’t really. It was nice though.
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Sunday, and Greenwich stirred my naval blood: and I liked London and I liked England. I stood beside the observatory; I looked out over the city; my breast swelled and I shouted, at the top of my voice:
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,—
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
I didn’t really. It was nice though.
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