sent from: London, UK. destination: Glasgow, Scotland, UK
Mine is not the England of sunshine and roses, picnic in the parks and al fresco dining. That there’s not an English word for the latter tells you it’s not a part of the native culture.
Mine is the England of dark, misty mornings and darker rainier evenings.
Of mashed brown leaves blown into snow-drift heaps surrounded by fresh-fallen neighbours.
Of deep green wet grass and damp tea-towel skies.
Of conkers and the anticipation of Guy Fawkes Day.
Of trains damp and heavy and as appetizing as a gym changing room.
Of grey pavements reflecting the greyer sky.
Of creatures in the garden, real and imagined, who steal your chickens and your babies.
Of empty parks when I and my love will sit [on] a slick bench, attended by an army of pigeons, eating our lunch in happy companionship.
It’s funny to me that a card about England should be on a postcard that’s so strongly Spanish. You could read something into that, but the reason is nothing by sheer carelessness. Or maybe it’s all coming from my subconscious.