Oh Wasn't it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm sick with disgust. She threww me in front of the judges, And my silly old collar-bone's bust.

Oh Wasn't it naughty of Smudges? Oh, Mummy, I'm sick with disgust. She threww me in front of the judges, And my silly old collar-bone's bust.

What the Londoner sees in his mind's eye is that cluster of towers and pinnacles seen from Pentonville Hill and outlined against a foggy sunset, and the great arc of Barlow's train shed gaping to devour incoming engines, and the sudden burst of exuberant Gothic of the hotel seen from gloomy Judd Street.

Imprisoned in a cage of sound, even the trivial seems profound

Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows.

People's backyards are much more interesting than their front gardens, and houses that back on to railways are public benefactors.

History must not be written with bias, and both sides must be given, even if there is only one side.