This morning I took a train to Stamford, never imagining it would be like.
I found a four leaf clover in the salad I ordered for lunch along with a Jacked Potato. When the circles do not find them in the meadows, then, think a bit ', you arrive with the outline. St. Patrick will be manifested in the salad.
sitting in this bar at Stamford Theatre I wonder how this place looks more like 'a house that a theater with feigned nonchalance take flyers to understand something.
On my side a lady greedily consumes a hazelnut cake topped with a layer of cream, from a distance you would not think, but it brings a wig. Her husband finished the cake after her, his hands and stubby fat sweet seems tiny.
mother and daughter in front of me, speak little, she runs a saucer, uncomfortable.
This morning I chose a destination at random, I got down the train and I found myself in the middle of a cluster of stone houses, as if it were a station house, who knows 'how come they put them'.
After a couple of alleyways, I found myself in front of a park, crossed by a river populated by strange animals, I would say colorful geese or ducks, giant, on the lawn and the rides, a funfair, the same everywhere, that left them 'and invaded through the long river. On top of
a hill in the distance, steeples of churches. "The war has not destroyed the original houses here," reads a sign. There are
city ', as Coventry, have been deleted from the war, have lost their memory of places, and now are annoyingly modern.
The old All Saint Church in the center awaits authoritative and solid and orders you to enter, until you fixed 'does not consider it, come and sit.
On the wooden bench, I was assailed by thoughts of the people who were here over the years to pray, sleep, heat up, a murmur undefined.
Sure, it was my imagination, God forbid.
women with sick husbands, with families and happy, drunken fellow, without a job, inheriting and homeless men, with wives absent, prostitutes and children in war and thoughts other than those you would expect in the church, the concerns of the priests. I love and miss
eplorare, to discover that a quarter of an hour from home so there are places', I like it.
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