There is excitment all around; buskers trumpet for our attention, vendors hawk their wares; Opera bellows forth from the pit of Convent Garden; Nelson stands guard over a Lion and a Blue Chicken at Trafalgar Square (where are all the pigeons?); iconic red telephone boxes stand trapped in a time warp and the sounds of Hiya and innit puntuate the airways.
History seeps out of every cobblestone we tread upon and our path takes us to where the ravens beckon us to the Tower, Yeoman tell us of beheadings, torture and undying love; the Crown Jewels evoke us into conversation about their ostentatious and gaudy nature , whilst Henry the VIII's armour designed to protect his two most important organs, his head and his dick cause us to begin a giggle loop.
Kings and Queens reign and stories of skullduggery are whispered through our headsets as we tour the majesty of Westminster Abbey. Peasant, Noble, Royalty and even Bogans all have the commonality of death; however, even in death wealth and privilege jettison forward. Westminster Abbey, a sanctuary for many, is the burial ground for many Kings and Queens of England . On entry a sense of great revenerence descends upon us and we feel suffocated by the immense history that surrounds us.
No comments:
Post a Comment