The Smooth Move

When all is said and done, I think we can safely say the move out of Windsor was a fairly clean one. Quite why the landlord refused to keep the fairly new bed and mattress I’d left behind and insisted I resurrect the wobbly old oak one I’d dismantled and left in a cobwebbed cupboard along with his mattress that appears a previous tenant gave birth to extra large triplets on, I have no idea. Well that’s his lookout. He did notice the broken window eventually but too late, he’d signed the inventory, tough luck buddy boy.

Neither I or Lola felt much emotion as we drove out of town in the Picasso leaving Liz and Phil to rule over the town.

I like lists, and for us Windsor will be ever associated with: the lovely Prince Arthur pub, the occasionally lovely Alma, Old Farter Time – the local Sikh shopkeeper and methane machine, sitting outside The Carpenters Arms looking at the Crooked House and wondering if it was the Franziskaner affecting our vision, Rothaus – the amber slayer at All Bar One, the crisp and clean mornings and the warm evenings with wine on The Long Walk and the millions of conkers underfoot, winning pub quizzes, losing pub quizzes, the uneven piss soaked streets and the screams of young people fucking in Liquids’ toilets.

On the other hand we probably wont miss the endless army of unbelievably rude yummy mummy’s, 7 year olds in Uggs, 6 year olds wearing more expensive clothes than both of us, the lack of anywhere to park, the lack of any food in any supermarket after 6pm, the mutant gypsy people of Staines and the driving skills of the people of Slough

One last note on Windsor…

Topper, you bastard.


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