Thank you. As disturbing as these times are, it's something of a relief to see the illusions shatter one by one. I was never very good at playing along.
Your poem took me back to my Granny Eliza Jones, who was in Service as a cook in a big house in Eaton Square, the original Mrs Bridges. I remember her twisted, mangled fingers from years of toil. My Grandad Fred Jones was the shoe repairer and would pick up the shoes from the kitchen where they met. I wonder if he had to ask Hudson, the butler, for permission to court her.
My father was also a cobbler, and I come from a long line of cobblers. In fact, my great-grandfather started Jones the boot makers. He had 11 sons who all became cobblers. That's probably why I am so good at speaking it. :)
Beauty! Downtown Abbey a century later.
Highest quality throughout ... and the final three lines are the cherry on top.
Thank you. As disturbing as these times are, it's something of a relief to see the illusions shatter one by one. I was never very good at playing along.
beautiful
Thank you
Your poem took me back to my Granny Eliza Jones, who was in Service as a cook in a big house in Eaton Square, the original Mrs Bridges. I remember her twisted, mangled fingers from years of toil. My Grandad Fred Jones was the shoe repairer and would pick up the shoes from the kitchen where they met. I wonder if he had to ask Hudson, the butler, for permission to court her.
Probably. On her one day off. I can imagine her looking forward to his visits, surreptitious glances through the steam...
I can't remember the last time I had shoes repaired. I could do with your granddad's skills.
My father was also a cobbler, and I come from a long line of cobblers. In fact, my great-grandfather started Jones the boot makers. He had 11 sons who all became cobblers. That's probably why I am so good at speaking it. :)
I'd hate to be in service...
It must be awful