My father was a newsagent in Wiltshire<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He ran a string of newsagents shops <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was a Wiltshire Lad <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And then we moved to London <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Where he ran a string of station bookstalls <\/p>\n\n\n\n
In the city and in the suburbs <\/p>\n\n\n\n
My favourite by far was the bookstall <\/p>\n\n\n\n
At Harrow and Wealdstone Railway Station<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Its main attraction to me were the express trains <\/p>\n\n\n\n
(Up and Down) <\/p>\n\n\n\n
That passed by at speed <\/p>\n\n\n\n
(Platforms Three and Four) <\/p>\n\n\n\n
When one of these trains entered the station<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The whole bookstall shook <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I was never bored as there was plenty to read <\/p>\n\n\n\n
On a couple of occasions I crashed in the stall overnight <\/p>\n\n\n\n
(Late London Hours) <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As there was a small settee in the kitchen area <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Strangely there was also a loo which I kept very clean <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Probably too clean as the bookstall always smelt of pine <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was also a place where I learned about life <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As on three occasions I served customers <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Who later committed suicide in front of trains <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I mourned them with a limited understanding<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was part of the macabre history of the station <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Which is well known and of which I will not speak <\/p>\n\n\n\n
On occasions I invited friends into the stall <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just for the company and a chat <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was so chilled as everything seemed to flat line <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nobody had agendas in those days <\/p>\n\n\n\n
It reminded me loosely of The Drifters <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Which was one of the paperback books I displayed <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Everybody was on their own journey <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I chatted to a girl called Dominic (yes that was her name) <\/p>\n\n\n\n
The daughter of a local butcher <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Who loved poetry as much as I did <\/p>\n\n\n\n
We wrote together exchanging ideas <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some of my poems still survive <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And can be found elsewhere on this website <\/p>\n\n\n\n
We were friends but just passing friends <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As she was already at university <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Correspondence ceased soon after her return<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But my poems remained captured and whole<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I often wonder if she found the success she wanted <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But like me she wrote using various pseudonyms <\/p>\n\n\n\n
So far I have not traced her work <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Neither her mine I believe<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is not an exercise in nostalgia <\/p>\n\n\n\n
But just a recollection of days past <\/p>\n\n\n\n
And if I should be as bold Mr Houseman <\/p>\n\n\n\n
I will (to close) use a few lines of your beautiful poem <\/p>\n\n\n\n
As it sums everything up <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Into my heart an air that kills From yon far country blows: What are those blue remembered hills, What spires, what farms are those?<\/strong> That is the land of lost content<\/strong>, I see it shining plain, The happy highways where I went And cannot come again. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" My father was a newsagent in Wiltshire He ran a string of newsagents shops I was a Wiltshire Lad And then we moved to London Where he ran a string of station bookstalls In the city and in the suburbs My favourite by far was the bookstall At Harrow and Wealdstone Railway Station Its main […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-13957","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13957","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13957"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13957\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":13970,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13957\/revisions\/13970"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13957"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13957"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/stuartmillerosborne.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13957"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}