Near the end of the underground on the North-west side of London is the little village of Penman's Green. My final stop in England was to stay with our friends Pedro and Tina. Pedro is a colorectal surgeon, and Tina was once married to my brother Pete. They visit Australia frequently and we usually catch up.
Best man and groom at Pete and Tina's wedding in 1982
Pedro and Tina's house
Tina and Pedro in front of Waddesdon Manor, a stately home which had belonged to one of the Rothschilds.
Waddesdon Manor was built by Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild between 1874 and 1885 to display his collection of art and to entertain the fashionable world.
Archie, playing a gig in a pub garden
Windsor Castle
Close to Windsor is the town of Slough, where I was born in my maternal grandparents house. We went on an expedition to try and find it. It was sold at one point and became a care home for developmentally delayed people. There was a scandal and enquiry into poor management, and the house changed its name to try to wash off negative associations, which made the hunt more difficult. We were eventually successful.
Stoke Green House (renamed Sistine Manor).
Sistine Manor (photo from the internet)
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An original photo of Stoke Green House. The very same! |
Slough had some bad press too. It was generally regarded as an eye-sore. Poet Laureate John Betjeman wrote a poem about it.
Slough
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town -
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week for half-a-crown
For twenty years,
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
