for the English lion, a step away from the Blenheim estate. I walked through the lakeside firs towards the great palace beforehand, a mirage of empire wealth and sandstone splendour away on the plain. Winston was born here but he never got to call the big house his own. And I tell my kids he mattered, talk of his oratory and spirit, as though he has some place in their view of the world. Laughing in the churchyard, whispering a line from some song they heard in the car. And me thinking of the snaps I’ve seen today, our world leaders assembled at the Paris march, but in truth crowded together in some guarded side street far from the masses and their unity placards, hired extras behind them to pose as the people they represent. Craven and self-serving and low are our leaders. Who will tell proud stories of them to their children, I wonder? And am I a fool for thinking Churchill would have turned his back on their linked arms and squalid deceit?
