After Goodwood’s over, I generally find that I get a bit restless. I’m not much of a lad for the birds and the trees and the great open spaces as a rule, but there’s no doubt that London’s not at its best in August, and rather tends to give me the pip and make me think of popping down into the country till things have bucked up a trifle. London, about a couple of weeks after that spectacular finish of young Bingo’s which I’ve just been telling you about, was empty and smelled of burning asphalt. All my pals were away, most of the theatres were shut, and they were taking up Piccadilly in large spadefuls.
This is absolutely the pippin, the Crown's jewel, and the toad's eye (or was it the newt's?)
I get London being unbearably hot at about 22°C (if only), Claude&Eustace in their best form, parsons left and right being unwittingly enrolled in a handicap race, and in addition I learn about the history and development of dickeys from the late 1800s to 2015 in British and Armenian fashion (thank you, Wikipedia) and what a toofah is. Bingo Little's pupil is still to show up, but I am sure he will, possibly with a bang. Perfect.
This is absolutely the pippin, the Crown's jewel, and the toad's eye (or was it the newt's?)
I get London being unbearably hot at about 22°C (if only), Claude&Eustace in their best form, parsons left and right being unwittingly enrolled in a handicap race, and in addition I learn about the history and development of dickeys from the late 1800s to 2015 in British and Armenian fashion (thank you, Wikipedia) and what a toofah is. Bingo Little's pupil is still to show up, but I am sure he will, possibly with a bang. Perfect.