Our Farnham who art in Hendon,
Harrow be thy name.
Thy Kingston come, Thy Wimbledon,
On Erith as it is in Heston.
Give us this day our Leatherhead
And forgive us our Bypasses
As we forgive those who bypass against us.
Lead us not into Thames Ditton
But deliver us from Ewell.
For Thine is the Kingston, the Pinner, and the Crawley
For Esher and Esher.
Crouch End.
This is known as the Busman's Prayer, of which several different versions exist.
I'm afraid it won't mean much to those across the pond, but for Londoners, and those from the Home Counties, I trust it will provide a small chuckle.
A good chuckle indeed Sir, though by no stretch of the imagination am I a Londoner.
ReplyDeleteLondon buses (and black cabs) - the humane alternative to scurrying about underground like termites.
The bus service hereabouts is one of those "on-demand" things in a digusting shade of minibus lilac/purple - it bounces around the county like something demented and trapped in a pin-ball machine. A trip of a few miles as the crow flies involves a full day and fifty scenic miles collecting other passengers. If the driver has a poem in him then every line must surely rhyme with "where the hell are we now?"
...and English politicians wonder why rural folk don't use public transport...
I expect that the red telephone boxes looked a bit odd when they were first installed in little English villages, but now they are seen as part of the traditional countryside which should be preserved at all costs. We can thank Miss Marple and Local Hero for that, but Doctor Who didn't save the blue Police Boxes...
DeleteIt did! ;)
ReplyDeleteI am across the pond, but what I DO know is that my father would have loved it and would have then made damned sure he learned every single reference. He LOVED plays on words and wrote send offs of most anything he could.
ReplyDeleteHello Jeannette. I like the sound of your father already!
Deletehey hey HEY!! I am across the pond and I understand the prose just fine thank you very much. I did afterall ride a tourist bus in Dublin once so there!
ReplyDeletewhen I lived and taught in Kent...up on the chalk in a village called Hawkinge...the five year olds I taught said...half a father what starts in heaven...harold be thy name!...true!
ReplyDeleteReasons to be cheerful!
ReplyDelete