I would sometimes go read to the old lady at Covent gardens, she was an invalid and liked someone to read to her. I read Dickens and Jane Austen and sometimes Shakespeare; that is how I learnt to admire the English for their eclectic taste in literature for who could write such passionately about the dusty and smoky underbelly of London other than Dickens and who could ever weave Victorian snobbery and glamour as magnificently as Austen did in her novels. I could never fully grasp Shakespearean tragedy though. The master story teller’s genius was lost on someone like me who studied Science. Relatively dry and rustic field compared to the rich world of art and literature.
I went to Bath one day, where Jane Austen lived for a brief period and visited the house she lived in. I must say the British has a lot to be proud of. Especially when it comes to their cities. Bath represents architectural grandeur as does Oxford. These are places steeped in history and culture. There happens to be frighteningly huge numbers of beggars at Oxford but the most striking thing about them are the books they possess, even in their forlorn existence. The British pride themselves in being well read, I fully concur that vice.
England is a country of literature, magnificence and rain. Yes, it rains incessantly in London and everywhere else too. It rains down the Thames, it rains at York it rains at Bradbury. It beats you to every meeting, rock show, seminar, carnival, movies or a routine visit to the dentist. It is there waiting to enter into your shoes sticking its dampness into your toes throughout the day making it crinkled and white in the evening. It is there adhering to the strands of your hair that the umbrella unwittingly exposed while walking and it covers your jacket even if you walked with that infernal black parasol of a thing firmly over your head. A tiny stream inadvertently makes way to reach you and peeve you trickling down your neck and addling your brains unless you learnt to coexist symbiotically with it.