The Kingswood Glossary

The Kingswood Glossary

​A helpful guide to  the quirks of our humble market town.

• ​The Bypass Brigade: (n.) The influx of London commuters who moved here for the "lifestyle," but still drive to the city five days a week. They can be identified by their Range Rovers, activewear, and the subtle look of panic when faced with a lack of Pret A Manger.
• ​The Great Divide: (n.) The silent, unspoken chasm between those who were born in Kingswood and those who moved here from "down south." This is most visible in the pricing of local sausages.
• ​Grout: (n.) Not just a substance for filling tiles, but a metaphorical uniform for the town's builders. If it’s on your hi-vis jacket, you’re in.
• ​The Brewery Quarter: (n.) A collection of refurbished industrial buildings that now house expensive flats, a craft beer pub, and a vegan bakery. Known by locals as "The Muesli Belt."
• ​The Golden Fleece: (n.) The oldest pub in town, where all important town business is conducted—namely, the dissemination of gossip. The speed of information here rivals fibre broadband.
• ​The Meadows: (n.) A large public park often smelling faintly of damp grass and canine ambition. The most important rule is to pretend you haven't seen a dog owner fail to pick up their mess.
• ​A Quiet Americano: (phr.) A specific request for a builder's coffee, served without fuss, fancy syrups, or existential debate. See also: "Sorted."

​The Grand Tour

​Barry, a man whose smile seemed to be permanently etched into his face, mopped a bead of sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. He was leading his tour group—a meticulously organised group of ten from Japan—through Kingswood’s Market Square. They were all wearing matching windbreakers and held up small, digital cameras like an extension of their arms.

​"And here we are, ladies and gentlemen!" Barry announced, his voice a booming, professional baritone. "The very heart of our historic town. On the left, we have St. Peter's Church, a magnificent piece of medieval history. And on the right..." he gestured with a flourish, "we have the Golden Fleece Inn, a pub that has been standing for longer than most of your countries have been… well, you know. Standing."

​The group offered a polite chorus of "Ahs" and "Ohs," their cameras clicking in unison. They were fascinated by the ancient pub sign.

​"Now, the Fleece is more than just a pub," Barry continued, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's the very nerve centre of Kingswood's social life. If you want to know who's dating who, who's had a planning application rejected, or who's just had a bit of a row, you come here. It's our own little version of the internet, but with more beer."

​A woman in the front row, Mrs. Tanaka, tilted her head. "So... like a... social media?" she asked, her English careful and precise.

​Barry chuckled. "Precisely, Mrs. Tanaka! But with less cat videos and more... well, more gossip about builders. Speaking of which..."

​Just then, a man in a grubby hi-vis jacket, streaked with what could only be grout, emerged from the alleyway, carrying two enormous sacks of cement. He was struggling, grunting with the effort, and didn't see the woman in activewear—a member of the Bypass Brigade, clearly—stepping out of a boutique with a new floral cushion under her arm.

​They collided.

​The sacks of cement ripped open, spilling a plume of grey dust that billowed up and over the woman, coating her in a fine, powdery mist. She stood, frozen, a limestone statue with a floral cushion. The builder, a man of few words, simply grunted, "Sorry," before scurrying off.

​The group gasped, their cameras clicking in a frenzy. This was not on the brochure.

​Barry, ever the showman, quickly pivoted. "And that, ladies and gentlemen," he said, gesturing to the cement-covered woman with a smile, "is what we call The Great Divide. A classic clash of cultures! The builder, with his honest toil, and the... ahem... homeowner, with her... well, with her aesthetic."

​He winked at Mrs. Tanaka. "It's a drama. A constant, unspoken drama."

​Mrs. Tanaka took a photo of the woman, now patting herself down in a futile effort to remove the dust. "So," she said, lowering her camera and looking at Barry with a knowing smile. "More cat videos on this social media, then?"

​Barry's professional smile wavered for a fraction of a second, before he laughed a little too loudly. "Right then! Onwards to the Brewery Quarter!" he boomed, turning sharply and practically jogging away from the scene of the conflict, leaving the tour group to follow, cameras still at the ready, capturing the silent, dusty comedy unfolding behind them.