Norfolk, my Norfolk

The limited blogging of the past few days was the result of a trip to the UK. Irritatingly, we only had a broadband connection for an hour during our five-day stay. Despite near-constant badgering from two of his children, my father has yet to upgrade his dial-up connection, and the locals with unsecured Wi-Fi are starting to wise up to our piggy-backing. PJ's mother doesn't even have dial-up, resulting in a desperate charge to the Cafe Nero in Doncaster, which was hardly conducive to writing entertaining posts. Even worse was that I couldn't access my "stories"; I had to learn about the birth of the Brangelina Baby from (gasp!) a newspaper! I felt so isolated, so alone, compelled to buy three mags during our 90-minute delay at Doncaster Airport yesterday morning and gorge on the gossip. After reading Star and Closer, I felt, once again, soiled and ashamed. Do you think there's a self-help group for celebrity gossip addicts? If not, should I set one up?

Despite suffering from Net withdrawal, the trip was a good one. Thursday saw us leave the rainclouds of Norwich behind in a jaunt up to the sun-drenched North Norfolk coast. We enjoyed lovely fresh seafood at Cookies, lush azaleas and rhodendrons at Sheringham Park, and then the quaint shops of Holt. Bootiful, as Bernard Matthews, turkey strangler and Norfolk boy, used to say.









Still to come: Driving across Lincolnshire.