Middlesex - The Forgotten Home County

As counties go, Middlesex (land of the Middle Saxons) is the second smallest in England. A county forgotten by most of it people. If you were to stop 100 in the street and ask do you know where Middlesex is. I bet most would have no clue! Or will tell you it disappeared back in 1965. When in fact it is still there! It has no county council and instead has a number of so called 'London Boroughs'. The law of this land states 'to abolish a county in England. One can only do this by Act of Parliment'. In the case of Middlesex, there has never been and act passed to remove the county!
So in fact Middlesex is still there sleeping in the shadows! In the same way as Mecury's light is lost to the sun. Middlesex's light is lost to the glow of London!
Over the years many books have been written about the county and they still are being written. So out there in the lands on the Thames north bank. There must still be a hardcore of people that still support our forgotten home county.

]Middlesex by John Betjeman[/i]

Gaily into Ruislip Gardens
Runs the red electric train,
With a thousand Ta's and Pardon's
Daintily alights Elaine;
Hurries down the concrete station
With a frown of concentration,
Out into the outskirt's edges
Where a few surviving hedges
Keep alive our lost Elysium - rural Middlesex again.

Well cut Windsmoor flapping lightly,
Jacqmar scarf of mauve and green
Hiding hair which, Friday nightly,
Delicately drowns in Dreen;
Fair Elaine the bobby-soxer,
Fresh-complexioned with Innoxa,
Gains the garden - father's hobby -
Hangs her Windsmoor in the lobby,
Settles down to sandwich supper and the television screen.

Gentle Brent, I used to know you
Wandering Wembley-wards at will,
Now what change your waters show you
In the meadowlands you fill!
Recollect the elm-trees misty
And the footpaths climbing twisty
Under cedar-shaded palings,
Low laburnum-leaned-on railings
Out of Northolt on and upward to the heights of Harrow hill.

Parish of enormous hayfields
Perivale stood all alone,
And from Greenford scent of mayfields
Most enticingly was blown
Over market gardens tidy,
Taverns for the bona fide,
Cockney singers, cockney shooters,
Murray Poshes, Lupin Pooters,
Long in Kelsal Green and Highgate silent under soot and stone.