Cromer

And another thing about Norfolk. Cromer. If ever a town deserved the title "God's Waiting Room" this is it. The streets are crammed with more old people than you thought existed outside Florida, and at the speed they move those streets stay crammed for a long time, believe me. It's eerily quiet, (because the poor old souls don't have the energy to talk and walk at the same time), except when the ambulances race by, woo-woos going. (What's the urgency, for fuck's sake? It's old age that's toppling 'em. Tell me what good getting them to hospital in a hurry's going to do.)

At first you quite enjoy it. I was around forty-five the first (and last) time I went to Cromer, and looking around me I felt young, energetic and vital. If I'd been with the right person I might even have felt a bit sexy (Rolls eyes and snorfles.) After an hour of trying to negotiate my way through streets packed tight with Zimmers and redolent with a miasma of wee, I started to see My Future staring me in the face. (Staring up into my face, 'cos those old people are really small.) All I could do was go back to my hotel, think of age, illness and death, and listen to those sirens wail.

Then I had a couple of beers and felt just fine. Thankfully I've never been over-troubled by sensitivity.