Come friendly bombs and fall on . . . Doncaster?

On Friday, we picked up a car at Norwich Airport and headed across the country to Doncaster. This involved traversing the flatlands of North-West Norfolk and Lincolnshire, grim places that advertise the death tolls on local roads with a sense of pride. I'd make some jokes about incest and in-breeding, but my experience in schools in this area made me realize they weren't particularly funny. For reasons that I can't begin to fathom, houses in the Swaffham/King's Lynn region can fetch huge sums -- upwards of 500,000 English pounds! How? Why? More importantly, who? Lincolnshire, it turns out, smells of cabbages; the stretch between Sleaford and Newark is desolate, and I can now see why a friend who came from there departed for the Far East (that's Vietnam, not Lowestoft) a tout vitesse, swearing never to return.

Apparently, last week was sun awareness week; women are more likely to develop melanomas on the back of their legs, presumably because of the difficulty of applying sun-tan lotion there. Doncaster highlighted why many women should be persuaded to wear trousers and skirts at all times of year -- not just to prevent skin cancer, but also to avoid dazzling me -- and not in a good way -- with their white legs. The women of this town fall into two categories: depressingly overweight and wearing skimpy skin-tight clothing, and scarily thin and wearing skimpy skin-tight clothing. There were very few who looked, well, normal. This is hardly surprising when you notice the advertisements for something called "pole fitness" around town.



My brother's comment about the increasing similarity of the wealthy across countries and the disparity between rich and poor within countries made perfect sense here: a community based on coal, decimated by the closure of the mines, a local economy now based on pubs and call centres, and some of the most appalling new buildings ever seen. It's depressing.

In contrast, Barnsley looked great! And I never thought I'd say that.