Marlborough House - not a Marlborough  moment, a garden, with pink flowers,no, I stand to be corrected, red flowers, roses, in  stone vases, in front of thethick trunk of a tree, the edifice upon which there is a commentary, it is almostout of sight, it's there where they had their grand parties and dinners, they beingthe Royalty and the aristocracy, while my great-grandfather Joseph hewedcoal down the pit, the black stuff that kept Marlborough House warm in winters,If he ever was to meet these gentry, undoubtedly he would take off his cap,"Good Morning" he'd say in the Black Country dialect, and he would like his deathin France, fighting for King and Country, mean nothing, like a leaf on the pink pathto be brushed aside, him and a million more besides, rubbish spoiling their Summers.