…The last time I tried this, it was worth nothing.

Look, $9,032.64 might not sound like much to you. But for me, it’s very nearly an armful.

I’d phoned Al from the train, wanting sympathy, for there was no real reason to explain what was going on. Most people on the train were good-humoured and philosophical about the incident, and sorry for the people involved. The announcement had said “a fatality on the line” and that was what most of them reported to the people they rang. I avoided the impersonal and said to Al “someone has died, hit by a train.”

One woman was hoping to meet a friend, whom she’d not seen for a while, and phoned to alter arrangements. She was pretty grumpy about the whole thing, but she was the only one. She was younger than me, blonde and fleshy, wearing a strappy top. I stood behind her when we were leaving the train and there was a blob of sun cream on her back. There was also a mark, not quite a mole, deeper pink than her skin, which I didn’t quite like the look of, though I don’t know if I had any reason to be concerned. She shot off as soon as the door opened and I couldn’t have said anything if I’d wanted to.

I took the bus into the town and walked down to the castle.

There were parties of schoolchildren milling about, which made it a bit noisy, but after all it is a museum aimed at children. It was well laid out in the modern manner – that is, to be ‘accessible’, and focused on the ancient history of the town, with walk-in models of bronze age round huts, Roman rooms and reproduction helmets, shoes and hats to try on. It gave a clear history of the town, including the Roman occupation – it was the capital of Roman Britain until the rebellion under Queen Boudica, when the town was burnt to the ground and the Roman inhabitants massacred. The short film explaining the circumstances of this was well done, although I didn’t care for the final bit where an injured Roman soldier was calling out to his fellow – “Don’t leave me, Marcus, help me”. Roman soldiers had more gumption than that.

I rather liked the Roman glass and ornaments, although the items in the third picture look purposeful as well. But there was no indication of their likely use.



It gave a social history and didn’t go further than mediaeval times, except for the dungeon, which was used as a prison until 1835, and the dramatised voiceover there was set in the period of Mary I, who reigned bloodily from 1553-1558.

There was a guided tour, which I didn’t join, of the Roman vaults and the castle roof, maybe that would have given more depth to the experience. It was all well done, interesting and clear, but it exemplified the treatment being given to museums now. In making a fun learning experience for children (and I’m not faulting it at all for that), there is limited scope for repeated visits for adults. I felt, after an hour, that I’d taken it pretty well all in.
I’m always a sucker for good brickwork though. This was a fireplace I think.

There was also a Georgian house, Hollytrees, in the same park which extended the social history to Victorian times. Charmingly done but again, entirely child-orientated. The house was bought and given to the town by a benefactor in, I think, 1923, but the top floor was quite bare and I was surprised that there were no ‘museum quality’ artefacts. Toys and child-centred objects and household implements; a few uninteresting portraits, but no good furniture, china or paintings.

There was another museum, the Clock museum, but it is closed on Mondays. The Natural History museum is in a redundant church, but I didn’t visit -with a crawl-through badger sett (which they spelled ‘set’) and a family trail, it wasn’t likely to be aimed at me.

I sound as if I’m damning with faint praise, I’m afraid, but in fact it is a fabulous place for families. The castle is not free, but the other museums are and it was beautifully laid out, interesting and informative. But directed at children, not at me.

One crocodile of children crossed ahead of me. A small, neat, blond-haired boy was saying pompously to a classmate “You have to take responsibility for your personal possessions.” He was so pleased with himself that he turned, still walking, and repeated it. Had I had the chance, I’d have pointed out that “You’re supposed to look after your own stuff” is better spoken English, and it would have been more useful and kind to help than to sneer, but I’d probably have been reprimanded by his teachers. On the other hand, they would probably have quietly cheered, to hear such a self-righteous little boy being told that he was not as perfect as he thought.

I set off to look for a pub. In Norwich, every other building is a church or a pub, but here a little searching was necessary. I rejected cafés without a licence, or smart wine bars, and eventually paused outside a place called The Purple… and here, I forget. Dog? I think so. It wasn’t Pig, I know. While reading the menu, my ear was caught by the patter of a Big Issue seller, which was so good-humoured and amusing that I went to tell him so and buy the paper. A brief chat, I refused the change and I went in for lunch with a smile on my face.

Big squashy leather sofas drew me, and I ordered pâté and beer and sat down to read the magazine. The pâté was good, home-made and unusual and I had a leisurely lunch. Down the lane, there was a splendid greengrocer. It really was excellent, lots of local produce and remarkably cheap. Some items cheaper than Al, and he easily undercuts the supermarkets for most things. It was called Humphrey’s and is in Eld Lane, if you visit.


The town is full of small independent shops, which is a real pleasure to see. Considering it is such an old town, there weren’t that many fine buildings and the whole place had a slightly old-fashioned (in a 70s way, which is not altogether good) feel to it. There was supposed to be a new ‘minories’ (I suppose it was a misprint for ‘minorities’) art gallery in the temporary bus station, opening 2007 but there was no sign of it, not even as a forthcoming attraction. I went to look at the Arts Centre, in another redundant church, but it seemed to be only a booking office.

I went to the top floor of the Co-op to use the loo. A pretty blonde woman in her 60s was ahead of me. Her hand was marked with vitiligo and shook. We caught each other’s eye, and smiled. Later, I caught up with her on the stairs and she apologised for walking slowly. I agreed that it would be easy to slip and she said that she was awkward because of her nerves. I asked if she had visited the doctor – she was stressed, she said, because of physical and mental abuse at home. She raised her trouser leg to show me bruises. I asked if she was receiving any help, she said she was and was booked to enter a refuge the next day. I felt helpless, but put my hand on her arm, said she was brave to take action, wished her well.

I walked back to the station, which was only a mile or so. I went to the enquiry office, to ask if I might use my train ticket early. The woman looked puzzled “but there isn’t a 4.30 train to Norwich!” I explained that it left London at 4.30, please might I catch the 4.17 from Colchester? She said I could. I didn’t see a ticket inspector on the train anyway.

I laid into the red wine as soon as I got back at 5.30, with some olives, cheese and little biscuits. The Sage cooked dinner, lamb chops (the lambs and their mothers are kept on one of our fields, naturally raised on an unfertilised meadow, the meat is fabulous), the first broad beans from the garden, new Suffolk potatoes. Followed by a Magnum. I found it hard to resist bed at 8 o’clock, but I was in it before 10. This was, no doubt, the reason I woke up before 4 am, dreaming that my back hurt. It did. It’s all right now.

The day started uneventfully and I caught the train, which was only six minutes late and that was because of a trespasser on the line just before Diss. Should it have been a warning?

Saxmundham, Ipswich, Manningtree, Colchester, Chelmsford – and then a stop at Shenfield, where an announcement came through that there was a delay, but no information as to the cause.

A few minutes later, it was a serious incident at Harold Wood*.

After that, a fatality on the line, and emergency services were in attendance.

Then, the train was terminating here – please leave the train or go back to Norwich. Hesitantly, I left the train and the station, gazed up and down Shenfield and went back in.

I spent the next half hour concentrating on feeling only sorrow and regret for a life lost, deep sympathy for the train driver who had, through no fault of his or her own, taken it, and fellow feeling for the passengers on that train, while being very glad I wasn’t one of them. Maybe that six minutes made the difference? Or maybe, six minutes earlier and we’d have been the last train through. Anyway, I think that was the thoughts of most of us, we were subdued and sorry, except for one woman who moaned quite a lot on the phone to her friend.

When the last train on the platform was going back, I decided to take it. By the time I got to Chelmsford, the announcement was that trains were going through to London Liverpool Street, albeit an hour and a half late, but I’d already decided to check out Colchester, a historic town I did not know at all.

Yeah, a couple of photos, but I’m tired, darlings – tomorrow.

I have checked my diary and Wednesday of next week is free. I will not be thwarted, I will rebook my ticket. I picked up a claim form and will be interested to see with what sum I am recompensed. Not that it was British Rail**’s fault, and they dealt with the situation absolutely correctly.

Still, thank you for your good wishes, and I’ll hold on to them, if I may, for another nine days.

*I assume that’s how you spell it? I’d never heard of the place.
**Our local train company is called ‘One’ but I can’t bring myself to call it that, any more than I can say ‘McChicken Sandwich’.

Right. Barely 8 o’clock, yet I am all ready. I have put my train ticket in my bag, ascertained that my Oyster card is there too, checked that I have a small bucketload of change for the car park and planned my trip. Oh, and I am, even now, charging the iPod, so that I can listen to the Shaggy Blog Stories podcast. I had not, I admit, bought it. I’d got the book, of course. But Mike persuaded me – or rather, he moaned to such effect that he awakened my maternally caring feelings and I shelled out for the download. I listened, at the time, to the start but had no time for more than the first five minutes. It takes more than an hour and a half to get to London from Diss however and I will discreetly arrange my hair around the earpieces so that I do not look too desperately sad, for I am too old, I know, for an iPod.

So, you want to know all about my visit to London? It is planned with the most casual precision, darlings. I still want to go to the Surrealism exhibition at the V&A – and I expect I’ll look in on Kylie, just to tell Martin. And I am going to the Anthony Gormley ‘Blind Light’ exhibition at the Hayward Gallery, as visited by Diamond Geezer (don’t know how to link to that particular post, but it’s today’s) and I, like the View, and recommended to me by Dandelion, too.

I have a feeling that there was something else I intended to visit, but I can’t now remember. I might not have time anyway. It all depends on whether I have lunch or not, probably. I don’t eat much, on my own, as it seems to use valuable time, although lunch with a friend turns it into an Event and worth skipping other things for.

PS – by the way, I haven’t told you the sad story of Dilly’s parents’ cat. They are away on holiday, so Dilly’s sister D (everyone in the family’s name starts with the same letter, so this may become confusing) is cat-sitting for them. *Pugsley* the younger cat (the baby, though younger, is not named after the cat, although they share the same name by coincidence) came hobbling home the other night, and D took him to the vet. It turned out that he had been hit by a car and he had to have his leg amputated. D texted her parents with the news, saying clearly that Pugsley the cat had had the injury.

“Oh no,” said Mother D. “Pugsley has had his leg amputated!” “Oh my God, that’s awful” exclaimed Father D. “Poor little boy, he’s only 8 months old, whatever happened?”

To know it was *only* the cat came as something of a relief.

Pugsley-Puss is doing well and getting about quite agilely. Pugsley-Baby is very well too, can clap and wave and tries to talk; he cannot crawl but can swivel around on his stomach and stand for quite a long time, if his hands are held. He also, for the last week, has had two teeth.

It didn’t feel like one at 1 o’clock when, having just switched the light off, I remembered it was the week of the 8 a.m. service, when I, being sidesman, need to arrive at 7.30. With an apology to the Sage, I switched the light back on and altered the alarm clock.

So the day restarted at 6.30. Two people arrived for the service (sidesman, read both lessons too), as well as Revd Sue. “Did you find my message on your answering machine last night?” she asked. I admitted that when I got in at 11, I hadn’t listened to it. She was sorry to have to ask, but could I play the clarinet for the baptism at 12.30 please? Yes, I could.

Home at 9, breakfast and a look at the paper, back to church at 10, service at 11 (played the organ), service at 12.30 – can’t complain, because Sue fitted in a 9.30 service in another parish. And she’s a non-stipendiary (that means unpaid) member of the clergy, so she’s not even doing what she’s paid to.

Yes, barking mad. All of us.

Oh, did I mention the funeral service that she took and I played for, on Friday?

This afternoon, I will do bugger all. And I might just swear a lot. At present, the halo is shining a bit too bright and I’m even boring myself.

This evening, Ro and I sped the 25 or so miles to Snape Maltings to a piano recital by Alfred Brendel. I’ve been listening to a good deal of piano music recently, which is something I hadn’t done for a long time, and it feels like a homecoming.

We had supper beforehand and amused ourselves watching and listening to the other concert-goers. We both sat in our own little worlds for a while before catching each other’s eye and realising that we were each thinking the same thing, so after that we exchanged views on dress-sense, cut-glass accents and clichés. Ro looked around, wondering if there was anyone else under the age of 27, but we couldn’t spot a likely suspect. He was amused and impressed that his ticket, being in that age group, was half the price of mine.

I bumped into friends who were unsurprised to see the Sage had not accompanied me. I explained that he is coming to a concert next week and I suspect he won’t enjoy it all (possibly not ‘at’ all), but that makes it all the more friendly that he is going to join me.

I had yet another Saturday morning in the shop, and we were very busy. It always happens that the shop fills, we scurry around serving for a while (most customers help themselves, but there are always some who appreciate service) and adding bills, and then the shop completely empties for a few minutes. This is a Good Thing, as you get a chance to fill shelves, but I can never work out how it happens – it seems to be random, but what makes 4 or 5 come in at one time rather than a few minutes apart?
Next week, I will not be on duty as I am going to have coffee with the group that went to Krakow, which will be a pleasure.

That’s about it. A quiet weekend. The first tomatoes are ripe and I’ll pick them tomorrow, I’ll play the organ for the church service and I’ll do as little as possible otherwise. Then, London on Monday.

Have a good Sunday, all of you.

I did this – I am smarter than 99.02% of the rest of the world.
Find out how smart you are. – having got it from Lionel d’Lion. Well, there you go.

My daughter and I went to K & R’s wedding in Madras/Chennai 3 years ago (they live in London but went ‘home’ to get married and with the gorgeousness of an Indian wedding, who wouldn’t?) My daughter has just emailed to say that they’ve had their first baby.

Very happy for them, just wanted to share the good news…

I’m not sure whether to carry on with the family story. Up til now, I’ve been writing down what I remember my mother telling me, but from here on it would be bound to become my own recollections, and I never intended it to be about me.

Today, I woke just after 5.30 and lay listening to the rain for a while. Since then the thunder has rolled around gently and i’ve lost my internet connection intermittently, although there hasn’t been a power cut. Al ordered a lot of strawberries for today, let’s hope they were picked last evening.

I was pleased to find, on Amazon, a book for the Sage’s birthday, which is next weekend. He usually ignores his birthday, more or less – he’s never let me do a party, not even for significant numerals. This year’s isn’t even that: indeed for the next three months we will both be prime numbers.

It’s still raining. We are to expect 2 inches, or 5 centimetres, today. This sounds quite a lot. East Angular gardeners don’t complain about rain though. Especially if they garden on sandy gravel.

A few scrappy recollections to wind this part of the story up…

The roadway to the hotel was about half a mile long and unpaved, so it was quite bumpy. My father came off his motorbike one day and broke his arm in several places. By this time, the National Health Service had been founded, giving free-at-the-point-of-service health care for all. Jane, you may remember, had been Weymouth Hospital’s Almoner’s Assistant a few years before, and one of her duties was taking care of the payment arrangements for the patients. She said that it worked very well, everyone paid a small amount into an insurance policy and, in practice, paid little or nothing for treatment. She and the almoner ran it all themselves and she was the receptionist as well.

When they returned to Out-Patients, they found things had changed somewhat. Instead of two people in the reception area, there were several. The receptionist, unsmiling, barked “Name?” and ticked Malcolm off on her list. They returned weekly for a couple of months or more. The last time, the same receptionist who had dealt with them throughout barked “Name?”.

The hotel pastrychef, Mr Dyke, was nearing retirement age and was a particularly valued member of staff. It was normal, in the old-fashioned paternalistic society that my father belonged to, and which no longer exists, to provide for the future of your staff, and so a guest house was bought for him, given to him outright. He ran it for years and we often stayed with him when we went back to visit Grandad. He also took one of our dogs.

We had three dogs, Bobby, more formally known as Robert John after one of the waiters, who had belonged to my mother before she married. He was a fox terrier and a keen hunter. I only remember him in old age, by which time he was blind. He lost the sight of one eye when he cornered a cat and, with more fierceness than sense, did not turn away whistling cheerily until the danger was past; and the other when he chased a rabbit through a thicket of brambles.

The second dog was a bull terrier called Shoolie. She looked immensely belligerent, but was sweet-natured and adored me and my sister. I was unafraid of dogs, for I’d no reason to be anything else. My mother once heard me, as a 2-year-old, screaming angrily “Give it back! Give it back!” She discovered that Shoolie had taken my biscuit and I was yelling at her and trying to prise open her jaws.

Goggie (“Oh, what a lovely goggie,” said my sister when the pup first appeared on the scene) was smallish and black. She looked not unlike Tilly now. Short smooth hair, a bit of terrier, a bit of who knows what – bit like me, really, except for the colour hair.

When we were planning to move, it was decided that uprooting all three dogs was a bit much. Mr Dyke took Goggie, another member of staff took Shoolie and we had Bobby. He lived to be 16 or more, and died when I was 5.

I don’t remember much about living at the hotel. We often visited, afterwards, an old couple who lived in the row of houses opposite the hotel entrance. He was Mr Carter (Tom) and I called her Auntie Carter. She had, as a child, lived near Thomas Hardy and sometimes met him in the lanes, walking with her mother. She was a tall child, and Thomas Hardy always had the same joke “You’re a bad, disrespectful daughter, looking down on your mother like that.” Mr Carter was a retired policeman and they had, on the wall, a print of the picture “Nine Pints of the Law” by Lawson Wood.

I remember trying to ride my tricycle outside the main entrance and finding that the wheels spun on the large gravel stones. I remember walking down a passageway and seeing my parents’ four-poster bed being taken apart, which was intriguing as I had never imagined that such a thing could happen. But, considering that I was four years old when we left, I must have been an unobservant child even then, because they are the only specific memories I have. I remember the first book I could read by myself “The Farm”, a Ladybird book, because it was the most exciting thing I had ever achieved, but I’m not sure whether that was before or after we moved.

My sister says, for I can’t remember, that we moved in the summer of 1958, when I was 4 and she was 10. I’m not sure why, nor is she, but she stayed on for the next school term, living with friends with three daughters, the oldest the same age as she was, during the school week and with Grandad at weekends.

That reminds me that my sister was born in 1948, the same year as Prince Charles. At this time, rationing and restrictions were still very much in operation and it wasn’t easy to get all the clothes and paraphernalia you want for a baby. The other family’s daughter, Roseanne, had the great good fortune to be born on the very same day as Prince Charles. All babies born on that day were sent, by the King and Queen, a full layette of beautiful clothes and other necessities in celebration of the birth of their grandson.

I babysat last night so that Dilly and Al could go to the first in a course of classes about beekeeping. Al in particular has come back full of enthusiasm. Next week, they will have a chance to be dressed up in beekeeper’s kit and do whatever you do with a hive. They asked if we’d mind if they want to start a hive – not at all, of course, I’d be interested too. There is plenty of room and we’ve fields all around, the nearest house is a couple of hundred yards away so we wouldn’t scare the neighbours either.

While I was cooking, the Sage went to babysit for a few minutes. Squiffany appeared at the bedroom door (she can turn the handle, so there is a child gate in the doorway) and called out. The Sage went and firmly told her to go to bed and stay there – she was so startled that she went, and not another sound was heard. This morning, her mother asked her if she remembered it. “Yes” she said, “I wanted Pugsley’s music to be turned on.” Mm, yes, and a few minutes later she would have wanted her potty or a drink of water. Grandpa will be asked to babysit again, I suspect, whether or not Al and Dilly are going out.

I offered to take over the shop for a week or two in June, but Al has (entirely politely) decided against it. He points out that this is a time when lots of home-grown produce is being brought into the shop and he really needs to be there, to negotiate prices etc. Today, broad beans and gooseberries came in. One of the boxes of gooseberries was sold within minutes, to someone wanting to make jam. My mother-in-law used to make quantities of gooseberry jelly, which was delicious and the most beautiful colour. I usually make strawberry jam, quince jelly and marmalade; sometimes blackberry jelly. I like pips, so I’d be happy to make jam of the blackberries, but I’m in a family minority. One year, I made hedgerow jam – blackberries, sloes, crab apples and elderberries – which was lovely, but I ate most of it. The family, while liking the flavour, didn’t appreciate the pips.

Anyway, they asked if I’d have any time in September so I checked my diary and gave them a choice of dates. Dilly didn’t waste time and has booked a holiday the last week of the month. I asked Al where they will be going. “Up North,” he said, “near Cromer.”

Imagine, if you will, the map of Great Britain. Norfolk and Suffolk share the Easternmost bulge that looks like a pig’s bum, without a tail (is the shape of Britain still commonly described as ‘an old woman with a pig?). We are in the middle, though towards the coast. Cromer is on the top north-east corner of the bulge. Only a complete East Anglian could call Cromer ‘up north’!