In fact, as a long-time visitor and soon-to-be full-time resident of this fine county, I can tell you it’s even better than that. Everyone here, regardless of when they were born, has a mental age of at least 48 years and 11 months. Youth has no place here. It took me a while to understand why I fell so quickly and so completely in love with north Norfolk when I first moved here 20 years ago – but there it is. It’s made for middle-aged people, and as I was born 35, I’ve been ready for it almost all my life. It’s a place of small shops selling good food, local arts and crafts or sensible clothes for the long, flat walks that are, famously, the main form of activity on offer. It is slow, confident and peaceful, and anyone who wants to create a ruckus or indulge in nonsense is frowned upon and wordlessly invited to jump into Ipswich. It’s home. “Let’s go for the first day of Wimbledon! It’s going to be fun! You’re welcome, Marjorie.” Photo: Steven Paston/PA
Tuesday
Dad just had one side of his body replaced (had no hip joint for two years, so when it finally came time to get it fixed, a lot of related stuff had to be set up around it – stop me if I’m getting too technical for you) and it was very difficult. He hasn’t been able to cook for a week. “What about my birthday?” I said as mom whistled and started screaming at him to his physical therapy rhythm when I went to visit today. “Who’s going to make me the traditional roast chicken?” “I’m sorry, little one,” Dad said as Mom bent his paw over his ear and a light sweat of pain broke out on his pale and furrowed brow. “I think you might have to. Or – your mother?’ I looked at her. “He takes a lot of drugs,” she said. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Now, tighten those buttocks!” She was talking to him, but it’s good advice for all of us. “No, but seriously, Dad,” I said. “You have two weeks. Can you be better by then?’ “I’ll get there,” he said, gritting his teeth against the agony as Mom pulled out her folding rule to ensure the legs would be raised to the intended height. “I might need someone to lift the bird in and out of the oven, but I can do most of the rest sitting down.” “And I want bread sauce, remember,” I said as I stood up to take my leave of Nurse Ratchet and her tremula. “I won’t let you down,” he said, just before passing out from the pain. I’ll give it a week before reminding him again. You have to make allowances for parents after a certain age.
Wednesday
Today something happened that I felt guilty and upset about. There was technically no reason – it wasn’t my fault, I had minimized the consequences for everyone, nothing and no one got hurt. But I did, because I often do, and anyone who is wired the same way as me will know what I’m talking about. Those who aren’t will be confused, but honestly: just go about your business, enjoy life, and may God and nature continue to bless you. Back to me. I felt awful, for no real reason. Normally this day slips away as I have to beat myself up about The Thing and reacting so irrationally to The Thing, and then other things in the past as they break their cages and join the fray. But today you know what I did? I bought something nice instead. Like I deserved it. I know?! I just thought I would do the opposite of everything my brain, instincts and training was telling me and see what happened. And what happened was that I felt better. It broke the cycle, stopped me from being a complete moron and got me back on track for the day. I offer this possible help to all who understood my first paragraph. Go against everything you stand for. At the very least, you’ll get a nice leather pencil case out of recycled leather.
Thursday
Several male MPs wore playful ‘menopause vests’ – heated jackets that simulate the hot flashes that are a common symptom suffered by those entering the post-menstrual years – as part of an event to raise awareness of the shortage of HRT products in the UK and to empathize with women it affects. They couldn’t wait to get their vests off – “volcanic,” said one. My hunt for an explanation of how these weak creatures came to rule the world continues.
Friday
My son went to his first party – an end of school year bash – tonight. As I was ushering him in, the door opened and a wave of noise, music and 11 year old sweat and spilled soda hit me and I was instantly transported back to all the worst nights of my life. My poor boy, condemned by his genetic inheritance on both sides, for not having married a man better in my youth or life than I, looked in and then at his rapidly receding mother. “Must?” he said. “Can you refund the in-app purchase we bribed you to come with?” I asked. “Or is that not how they work?” “No,” he sighed. He squared his shoulders and turned back to look at his Som. “I’ll be at the cafe around the corner,” I said. “Suffering the torments of the damned with you, but at a safe distance.” He lasted 20 minutes, which is longer than his father and I managed in all our childhood discos combined. We are very proud. “Well, I say, look at it, now, Nick – break the whole thing up! Strip it, sell it for parts. Give that stupid son of mine something to do when I get caught.’ Photo: Jane Barlow/PA
