Epsom
Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
The first time I met the parents of my girlfriend, Alexis, they put on extra posh accents to impress. They were sweet, so was the tea, and already far posher than me. It only took one ‘Ello, luverly to meet you’ from me for them to realise they’d over-invested. But by then they couldn’t back down. Alexis whispered that they weren’t normally that posh, and all she’d told them about me was that I was lovely. But they knew, that I knew, that they knew, that I knew, that they knew, that I knew, that they knew, that I knew, that…
Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
Bin men pick up rubbish bags with their pinky fingers daintily extended, John Nettles is the law and the starlings sing ‘You’re beautiful, you’re beautiful…’ in Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
I bought my girl chocolates. There was only Conscious Chocolate, Green & Black’s and Seeds of Change in the pristine shops: middle-class chocolates with centres such as ‘the better part of town’, ‘a good college’ and ‘a bit of rough’, in Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
There are no coincidences but sometimes the pattern is more obvious. In Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
Alexis had a Porsche, in ‘Not red, dahling, scarlet’. She’d motor to Marks & Spencer, to the Downs and to country pubs for lunch. On our first outing she squeezed me in and sped off in a polite cough of dust. A few miles on she remarked worriedly that the car seemed to be dragging to the left. She drove a bit further and then pulled over. She walked around the sportster but could not find fault, drove further and said that the car was still not right. I asked her how many other fat blokes she’d had in there before.
I got the train back from Epsom, let me tell you about Epsom.
