SIR, —Last Saturday I was sitting on our tiny village station.
It was a lovely day and the platform was bathed in glorious sunshine. But the golden light fell upon a sad, oh! such a sad landscape. The drab green and yellow paint was peeling from the gas lamps and flaking from the woodwork. The station was not worthy of the liquid which was poured on it by the sun.
My eyes saw such a different picture. The gas lamps were black round the bases, the stems were blue and the tops were cream with black to balance. The fence was painted, along with all the benches and wood- work, a gay red and white. Down with green and yellow! Down with all drab paint! Up with a bright and stylish Britain! Up with gay stations and gay streets! Who will join me in a campaign for a brightly coloured Britain, a Britain with its great heritage of beautiful buildings from the past moulded with the progressive planning of the future?—Yours faith- fully,