There are many desirable areas in the Borough: however, Thorpe Bay’s always been slightly exclusive, for as long as I can remember. Sure, I could point at particular roads in town, or postcodes that add value to your property, but this is where it’s so quiet during the week you just know that you’re in the presence of significant amounts of wealth.
There’s no cinema, or theatre, or anything really cultural. It’s all clubs, all the time. The first road signs on the Avenue strictly prohibit coaches and commercial vehicles parking: it’s almost as if they don’t want the riff-raff about, in case we start making the place look scruffy. I can understand that. I know my place, guv’nor.
Yes, I really did fail my driving test here the first time. I passed on the second try.
Sine Nobilitate
Sent down the posh end,
I failed first driving test:
couldn’t stop when asked,
embarrassed self instead.
Inhabitants have no need to
write Land R on shoes,
they’ll have employed a driver
sensible thing to do.
Empty weekday entrances;
thousand gravel variants
revolving door of services
from gardening to pools.
Yet no-one here enjoying
weekday Estuary sunshine
the money’s up in London,
trophy homes will wait.
Occasionally someone’s
driving past the Golf Course
normally with top down
no matter if it rains.
Sent down the ghost road
memories of silence
nobility conspicuously
absent, somewhere else.
The signs tell you no stopping
we don’t want your kind here
yet nobody exists right now
except these birds and me.
Proper Bard 