english dreams...final
It's one o'clock and time for lunch,
When the sun beats down and I lie on the bench
I can always hear them talk.
I'm not sure where it comes from, all these English dreams. Perhaps it's too much Monty Python, too much Genesis, or too much Miss Marple. It's definitely too much Dr. Who. But what is it that drives me, causes me to warm to, all things English? Is it the history? Maybe. The richness of the history is a big draw, that's for sure.
There's always been Ethel:
"Jacob, wake up! You've got to tidy your room now."
And then mister Lewis:
"Isn't it time that he was out on his own?"
Over the garden wall, two little lovebirds - cuckoo to you!
Keep them mowing blades sharp...
Perhaps it's the people. They come in all different types, just like here, so what's the difference? Truth is, I don't really know. I've only known a handful of English people, all quite nice on their own. What I get regarding the English temperament I get from television and books. Fortunately, I get it from more than just bad television. Dickens is one source, albeit archetypical in many cases.
Sunday night, Mr farmer called, said:
"Listen son, you're wasting your time; there's a future for you
In the fire escape trade. Come up to town!"
But I remebered a voice from the past;
"gambling only pays when you're winning"
- I had to thank old Miss Mort for schooling a failure.
Keep them mowing blades sharp...
More than likely, it's just a complete fantasy world that I've built up in my head. One that includes such figures as those inhabiting the charming Village of Dibly. A fantasy that is full of tea drinking doctors who disappear into a "Police in a Box". A strange fantasy where grown men wear costumes to make themselves look like famous philosophers and play soccer, or do commentary for a side-table and Victorian furniture derby.
Then again, it could be any of those things, or none. It doesn't really matter anyway, the fantasy persists. I suppose I have to accept the fact that I am a die hard Anglophile, and there's nothing I can really do about it...one of these days, my wife and I'll visit. One of these days, I'll sit in a proper English garden, in front of a small thatched roofed garden, and be able to experience it as it actually is, not as I think it is. We'll travel the north country as well, visiting Scotland, and it's rolling highlands. Maybe I'll die while I'm there, because I'll think I'm in heaven, or that I've finally come home. So strong is the fantasy, that my eyes will likely be clouded with unreality and falsehoods...I'll see things differently than everyone else. But it doesn't matter. As long as the locals are friendly, the bitter thick, the fire warm, and the conversation interesting, I'll let the fantasy persist.
This post is dedicated to the two servants of Her Majesty who have recently begun frequenting this blog and commenting. Thanks! You know who you are.
Labels: anglophile
