A husky Georgian building, muscular and flexing, ready to take on any young upstart on this narrow Winchester street.
Beaming red brick, chimneys itching to roar once more, towering, but in the air I could sense the sideswipes and ‘Johnny Come Lately’ whispers from neighbourhood elders.
A few centuries ago it had strong-armed its way onto the street scene, back when the setting would’ve already been timeless. This chunky edifice stands defiant, like an aged boxer, windows full of bricks, from a mean tax that imposed disfigurement upon such like. On a nation that was already sunlight deficient, it took another hundred and fifty years to get rid of the idea, but a real money maker for some.
A tax on daylight, just couldn’t made it up, and yet in the same year another tax on bricks too. They certainly did do well any making it up.
Each time I find myself wandering along an old street, I try my best to look up without bumping into things, because every now and there might be a bricked up window or here and there.
