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I was at the Crossbones vigil last night for a special ceremony for St George and the outcast dead. The Crossbones graveyard isn't a proper graveyard because it was never consecrated; here was where from medieval times, Southwark prostitutes licensed by the Bishop of Winchester ('Winchester Geese',) were buried. Buying a license to ply their trade gained them no respect after death; despised they were and despised they were buried in what was called 'The Single Women's Graveyard.' The history was known but not the whereabouts of the bones, until now. The land is owned by TFL, whose transport extensions across London are accidentally becoming the grandest history project in Britain. Now there's a gate hung with ribbons and a little shrine, and the concrete square behind is being turned into a garden. Here's hoping it becomes permanent.

John Crow has been involved with the 'Spirit of the Winchester Goose,' since the 90s, and has pushed for recognition of the place. He led us all into the garden for a little celebration, and St George and the Dragon played out their play with a difference - they went down the pub in the end. It tickles me that our patron saint is Cappadocian, and is also the saint of Portugal, Georgia, Catalonia, Brazil and syphilis. Guess where there are dragons you need St George, even if the dragons are in your underpants.

John Crow was the most agreeable of the white-haired men I have had dealings with over the past few days in so much as he has never tried to pick me up. In this he has been a singular anomaly; suddenly I seem to be tickling a very specific kind of fancy.

There was a gentlemen I had a brief tryst with around 30 years ago, who has revealed an interest in rekindling that connection. He is a man of charm and candour and yes, white hair, and I replied to him kindly but clearly; My heart is given, I'm very much in love, it's never going to happen. Unexpected though that was, it was nothing compared to last night's beer-tanked version of Alan Rickman-with-a-wart who was determined to make me his best friend. This was not an elder gent, just a guy with shock white hair and shocking manners. Nothing could deter him except shaking him firmly by the hand, saying 'Goodbye' and walking away in the other direction to catch up with my friends, one of whom was a white haired acquaintance who started giving me the sweet eye, saying we should meet up and the like. He has always been a bashful fellow until now. 'Ooh,' he said, 'I've never been a fan of Guinevere, I'm much more a Morgan type of fellow. You're a Morgan type aren't you?' Gad. Don't know about Morgan, I appear to be attracting a wee shoal of Merlins; note, they can't be pepper haired, and age has nothing to do with it. No, it's got to be the whole platinum white thing going on, or the charm doesn't work. I honestly think it is Spring that's doing it. Or St George and all those Winchester Geese have sent me a surprise brood of underpants dragons.


( 2 comments — Leave a comment )
Apr. 24th, 2015 08:24 pm (UTC)
This is clearly what you need. I recommend application to the "gentleman" in question, until he is very sorry.
Apr. 25th, 2015 08:59 am (UTC)
:-D :-D :-D The perfect defence! Thank you Baggy!
( 2 comments — Leave a comment )



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