Mobile:  079 39 49 75 38

Office:   014 76 86 08 40 

Mobile: 079 39 49 75 38

Happy to give GUIDE PRICE over the phone

Call  Graham Denney      8am - 9pm  Monday - Sunday

Sash Window Styles Ltd.       Joinery Workshop 2. The Grove. Three Gates Road. Fawkham. Kent DA3 8NZ

Office:   014 76 86 08 40

Happy to give GUIDE PRICE over the phone

Call  Graham Denney      8am - 9pm  Monday - Sunday

Happy to give GUIDE PRICE over the phone

Call  Graham Denney      8am - 9pm  Monday - Sunday

For other example installations nearby, please return to Home Page Menu and scroll down to A - Z Area Installations List of double-glazed sash windows in Southeast London, Southwest London and Kent, or select A - Z button link below.

Double-Glazed Sash Windows - Deptford, SE8. Southeast London

Double-Glazed Timber Sash Windows - Deptford, SE8. Southeast London

9 Elverson Road, Deptford SE8. South East London

49 Scawen Road, Deptford SE8. South East London 

Post Scriptum. Just for the record. Shakespeare's mate, Christopher Marlow, the geezer who coined the immortal phrase 'The face that launched a thousand ships' (an allusion to the Trojan war caused by the kidnap of Helen), was knifed to death outside a 'modestly respectable dining house' in Deptford High Street, May 31st 1593.


A decidedly dangerous observation might also lead one to record that Deptford and a string of other towns surrounding London like a ring of black death could lay claim to have been 'kidnapped' by an invasive breed quite alien to the natives who peered over the banks of Father Thames as the wind-rushed Roman ships sailed up the backside of Dark Albion two-thousand years ago. That empire-carrying cargo of conquering usurpers into ancient Rome's Londinium port gave birth to ever-pregnant blackguards fatefully mirrored by the British Empire's ivory-hunting expeditions into the Congo's heart of darkness which unwittingly unleashed upon Blighty an endemic Voodoo-type curse -- a proliferate disease of xenogenic origin far more devastating and pervasive than the incurable bubonic plague en masse.


Can you hear the gods laughing?


As it happens, it wasn't that long ago, relatively speaking, my seventeen-year old dad -- a Deptford boy of three brothers and a sister living in a smoggy terraced slum in Creek Road with his carpet-bashing mum and veteren "old man" of the First World War -- stood with his teenage mates on Deptford docks and looked up with shock and awe and shook his fists and cheered with exalted rage at the heroic few winged wariors spitting fire at the falling Valkyries.


The unforgetable dogfights in the silver-lined skies above Deptford docks dug deep into dad's psyche and, at nineteen, following the 1939 Battle of Britain, he achieved second place in a national exam to win selection for what was then the Top Secret poineering radar technology of the Royal Air Force. Not bad for a gifted workingclass Deptford boy who forfeit his place for a grammar school education coz his mum turned up her nose to spite her son's superior eugenics with the "bloody-minded" excuse that they couldn't afford the cap and tie of the local grammar school uniform.


I've started, so I'll finish . . .


Fortunately, I was one of those well-fed kids who had jam on my bread and happily skipped to school with shoes on my feet and indulged in the luxury of a weekly hot bath with soap! Born in sanitised Lewisham hospital, nursed by whiter than white midwives, I belong to the inoculated generation who "never had it so good." Yeah, I'm one of those wide-eyed English kids who had the priviledge of sitting by the glowing coals of the family fireplace and, instead of watching dreadful Eastenders or, god forbid, Coronation Street for our evening's entertainment (Steptoe and Son, and Till Death Do Us Part, was the much-loved exception to the rule), I could initiate the epic story-telling sagas by that classic bedtime kiddie request "What did you do in the war, dad?"


"Did you kill any Nazis?"


Although I'm sorely tempted by the Muse who, without restraint, ever haunts me, I shan't risk being led into the Odyssean Sirens' liberterian trap of attempting to write a discourse for what inevitably will transgress into a verboten subject. Clearly, this is not the time or place to make windows into men's souls, nor commit existential suicide by literally crossing the Rubicon's rivers of blood - freely spent by the forgotten generations of Blighty's whities who won two World Wars but lost the 'kin' Peace. So I'll abandon the Forbidden Muse . . . for now . . . and let sleeping liberal fascists lie, lest I awaken the rabid hounds of a pandemic 'diversity' industry-cum-Orwellian nightmare that, with hateful hypocrisy and infallible "anti-racist" diktat is quick to rouse the treacherous mob to self-righteously stamp down on me with the Politically Correct jackboot of the Law.


Been there, done that . . . got arrested.  Thus, my forbidden philosophy concludes:

It's all over bar the shouting. The rest, I fear . . . is silence

It is certainly worth a drive-by to see some examples of our outstanding workmanship and confirm by due diligence the self-evident credibility of my trusty moto "Seeing is believing . . . Quality speaks for itself."