The stone cold grey blocks of the imperial past, buildings and works of a type we'll never see again. Nobody is going to build anything this way and so many of the skills have faded away. There would be no good reason to try and the costs would be eye watering. It's drab and imposing, familiar and disturbing, heavy in resource and labour, crafted rather than "thrown together and built on an austerity budget". Blood, sweat, tears and exploitation ... you do it your way because you can.
You're known as "His Excellency" from Sydney to Bombay and beyond. In every gentlemen's club, diplomatic office and government building doors are opened for you. You have a boy to bat away the insects. Cool drinks are poured as you sit back in a leather chair. And when the tour is done porters with horses and carts carry your heavy trunks mixed through with pillage and profit down to the waiting ships.
There the nimble dockers handle all those wooden cases of valuables with care and a grim reverence, the special instructions have been branded onto the timbers in the Queen's English, it's clear what's happening. Ropes and bindings cut into their edges, nails groan as the crates are stowed away for the trip home, down in the dark hold. Ultimately those fine item's long journey ends with them sitting behind glass in some great house, away from the real world once again, fearful of dust and handling. Trophies of forgotten wars and conquests. Everything is now in it's rightful place.
"Plant something in the old horse trough to brighten up the square."
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