I fell in love a couple of weeks ago. The object of my affection was an autochromatic print of roses from a family garden in New South Wales dated 1909. I knew that I didn’t want to muck about with it in my usual fashion but only to clean up the dust and scratches and enhance the dusty pink with a peach overlay.
The Real England is a concise, direct, and not-so-gentle window into the depths of the leftovers of the world’s once greatest empire. It is told from the perspective of one lone (or not so lone) long term visitor. It informs one of the dregs of the country and helps to explain quaint British oddities such as the crack addicted chav.