If only I could say let's meet at St. Pancras,
not below the android looking couple, clinching
under the clock, but next to Betjeman's statue,
crumpled, loveable, human.
You haven't seen the station, done up
in all its magnificence, the long glitzy
champagne and oyster bar at the track's edge.
I still don't like oysters and you never tried them.
The first thing I'd do is tell about the children:
daughter as good as her word
never working for the big business, our son
becoming an arts writer. I know it will never
happen, but if it did, I'd carry a whole bunch
of red carnations, so you couldn't miss me.
--Peter Phillips
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