Norwich Castle Reborn

The last time we had a gander around Norwich Castle’s 900-year Norman keep, it was a hollowed-out shell. When converting the structure from a prison to a museum, the Victorians had ripped out the floors. The 19th-century look certainly had the wow factor and gave the structure a great sense of scale, but it lacked authenticity. Fast-forward to 2025 and, following a five-year, 27.5 million quid transformation by the Royal Palace Reborn Project, visitors can now explore five reinstated floors – from basement to battlements. So we reckoned it deserved a second viewing.

Alongside the remodelled keep, the castle features an assortment of galleries dedicated to local history. We really liked the exhibition dedicated to Boudica, the rebellious Queen of the Iceni who, between 60 and 61 CE, bloodied the noses of the perfidious Romans, torching the embryonic towns of Colchester, St. Albans and London along the way. In the end she and her rebels were crushed, but her heroic struggle has become the stuff of legends.

But we were really there for the main event – the new royal apartments dressed to impress in authentic 12th-century style when the keep was as much a palace as a fortress. What struck me was the gaudiness of the regal decor and trappings. I’ve always thought of the Middle Ages as being draped in drab and dirty earthy colours to match the short, sharp lives of the plebs. But, of course, we’re talking about those at the top of the heap. And what have they always done? Flaunt their wealth and power in glorious Technicolor.

As befits its high-end status, the residence came with all mod cons – a deep freshwater well and a less than freshwater communal toilet – a garderobe in castle-speak – where matters of state would be discussed over a bowel movement and the Groom of the King’s Stool might yell “garde à l’eau” – the possible origin of the modern word ‘loo’ – to unfortunate peasants passing by below.

We were particularly drawn to the centuries-old graffiti carved into the stone walls. Two examples stood out as most poignant: an image resembling a crucifixion in the shape of a St Andrew’s cross and a face of a woman in a wimple – possibly a nun – whose shiny image looks like it’s been buffed over and over again, perhaps by desperate souls seeking salvation before swinging from a rope. Both etchings speak of a time when, for 400 years, the castle was a prison.

We loved the experience and the excited sprogs around us loved it too. The whole show is a wonderfully vibrant way to bring history to life, for young and old alike.

Our last stop was a tour of the ramparts – opened up to the public for the first time. From here the punters get a tantalising glimpse of the modern city through the gaps – called crenels – between the raised stone blocks of the parapet. It screams “we’re in charge now and don’t you ever forget it”. Shame I left my longbow at home.

And to top it all, the museum is a finalist in the Art Fund Museum of the Year Award 2026. The winner will be announced on the 25th June at a ceremony at the Cutty Sark in London. Fingers crossed! 🤞

Do Calm Down, Dear

The relentless rise of artificial intelligence (AI) is fast impacting many aspects of our daily lives. I have no insight or wise words about where AI will eventually take us. Doubtless, as with all game-changing inventions and innovations, they’ll be winners and losers. The cottage spinners of old weren’t too pleased when jenny* started her spinning. Jenny might have put them out of business, but, for good or ill, it did help kick-start the industrial revolution. What I do know is that AI is increasing the frequency and creativity of the hoax emails I get. Here’s a classic example…

I’m Paige, organizer of the London Sunday Book Club, and I had to reach out because your book has completely ignited our community. The discussions have been intense, emotional, and nonstop, it’s rare that a book moves our members at this level.

The excitement is building quickly, and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to connect with you while the momentum is this strong. Our members are deeply invested, actively recommending your work, and eager to engage beyond the page.

I’d love to explore how we can make this happen and would truly appreciate a quick response.

Warmly,
Paige
London Sunday Book Club

As much as I’m a sucker for a bit of fake flattery, it’s all a bit OTT and with a strong whiff of AI about it. “Intense, emotional and non-stop”? Blimey, it’s enough to make this cynical old gay boy blush. But, come off it, Paige, the book’s 15 years old, so I’d call that a slow burn not an ignition. And there’s no mention of which of my books has got Paige turning non-stop.

The weird (and worrying) thing is that it seems there really is a London Sunday Book Club, a group that meets monthly in The Racketeer, a fancy cocktail bar in London’s King’s Cross. We’ll be in that part of London next month, so we might pop in for a slippery nipple. And the book group’s organiser (or organizer, as she spells it) is called Paige. I wonder if she knows that some money-extorting scammer is using their group as a ruse. On the other hand, if the book club isn’t real, it’s quite an elaborate con.

Whatever the truth, ‘Paige’, do calm down, dear, before you spontaneously combust.

*The spinning jenny is a multi-spindle spinning frame invented around 1764 by James Hargreaves which revolutionised the textile industry. 

A Bird’s Eye View

Recently, I stumbled across a fuzzy aerial view of Loddon Staithe, the inland harbour which divides our sleepy parish of Chedgrave from our larger next-door neighbour. Traditionally, a staithe was a wharf for loading and unloading cargo from wherries – flat-bottom sailing ships – which plied their trade up and down the waterways. Back in the day, it was the best (and often the only) way to get coal to the fire and wheat to the mill. Business was brisk until it was killed off by the unstoppable march of the internal combustion engine. Nowadays, the Staithe is the domain of would-be sailors mucking about in pleasure boats and some fancy houses overlooking the glassy waters with their own private moorings.

Looking at the photo, I was a bit disappointed not to find our small gaff – sadly we’re just out of the picture. So I did a bit of digging and uncovered a hoard of amazing aerial shots, mostly on Flickr from the talented lens of a fella called John Fielding. I found various images – of the Staithe, of Loddon’s grand 15th-century Holy Trinity Church, of Hardley Flood* and (my favourite) a long shot of the River Chet from the Staithe to the Flood. But still no Pansies HQ, though. Sad face 😞

But then I remembered we had an old parish plan which features an image of Chedgrave on the front cover. And lo and behold, here we are, although you’d need a keen eye and a magnifying glass to spot us so I’ve added a red arrow. Now we’re in the picture. Happy face 😁

*Hardley Flood is an area of tidal lagoons and reedbeds providing a spillway for the River Chet and a nationally important bird sanctuary.

Nobody Likes a Slack Ring

A couple of years back, Liam lost his wedding ring. He knew not how, he knew not where. He got really upset about it, but these things happen. We put it down to his increasing decrepitude. On the other hand, as I’d put on a few pounds since we got hitched, my ring was so tight that I needed loads of lube to extricate it from my finger. So we decided to replace both rings and, at the same time, renew our vows. But who can recall what words were said all those years ago? I can barely remember what I said yesterday; I’d be next to useless in a police interview. It’s just as well we kept a copy in the loft alongside the rest of our matrimonial bits and bobs, odds and sods.

Unlike our first time around – a bit of a do with our nearest and dearest – the new ‘I dos’ were a low-key affair. Just the two of us with a bottle of bubbly as our witness.

More recently, diabetes came a-calling, and I was under doctor’s orders to fight the flab. I’ve got family form – both of my brothers are diabetic. So, it was okey-dokey doc, and chef Liam swung into action with his low-carb cookbook. And boy, he really knows his way around a sun-kissed tomato. Hey pesto, I’ve dropped a stone and a bit, and diabetes is no longer knocking – for the time being at least.

But there’s been an unexpected side effect to my new regime. My second ring is now so loose that it flies off in the shower. It’s a bit of a Goldilocks moment – ring one is too tight, ring two is too loose. Let’s hope that ring three will be just right. Because nobody likes a slack ring.

Happy 18th wedding anniversary, Liam.

Perky Daffodils

Ringed by wonky tombstones, our pretty village church sits on top of a small hill. Called ‘All Saints’ – to cover all the holy bases – the unassuming little building is an eclectic blend of eras – Norman, Georgian, Victorian and modern. The Norman bell tower features a rare folksy thatched roof, and the east window is rumoured to be from Rouen Cathedral, picked up for a song following the French Revolution.

Our micro-cottage nestles at the foot of the hallowed mound, and I pass by the church when popping out for rations. Now and again, I take a stroll around the fir-lined graveyard and while away some me time on a memorial bench. I’m no God botherer, but I find it soulful and restorative, a welcome distraction from a scary world. And now spring has finally sprung, the sight of perky daffodils glowing in the afternoon sun is pretty restorative too.

The Palladium of Drag

I recently stumbled upon this delicious titbit – pun intended – on Faceache about drag life at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern way back in the sixties. Click the image to see the clip.

One of my old witterings from 2015 came flooding back. At the time I wrote:

“I’m sure I’ve been here before.” So said my mother after she took a sip of her brandy and coke and looked around the large smoke-filled room. It was 1980 and I was stepping out with Bernie, a salesman from Somerset. We were treating my mother to a night of slap, sequins and perversion at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, South London’s premier drag pub. As it turned out, her feelings of déjà vu were spot on. In the swinging sixties, she and my soldier dad had slipped out from the barracks on the other side of the river to catch an act or two.

Déjà Vu, 21/09/15

My own debut at the infamous cabaret venue was in the late seventies before the interior had a radical facelift and the curved bar running down the middle was ripped out. As you can see from the footage of the terrible turn miming badly to a 1969 Clodagh Rodger’s smash, it was used as a catwalk by the jocks in frocks to preen, prance and mince up and down. Happy-clappy punters would rescue their pints before they were high-kicked into the crowd by an unguided stiletto. And, after one too many sherries in the dressing-up cupboard, the act might trip over their heels and do an impromptu stage dive.

Since then, much of old Vauxhall has been tarted up in glass and steel and the boozer itself was at serious risk of being replaced by yet more fancy flats. That was until Historic England stepped in and listed (ie protected) the building because…

…the building has historic and cultural significance as one of the best known and longstanding LGBT venues…

And, I’m glad to report that the RVT, as it’s now known, is still going strong with the slap, sequins and perversion.

Image Courtesy of RVT on Facebook

The Faceache footage from the RVT’s page was itself lifted from an old TV documentary called ‘What’s a Girl Like You…’ at the British Film Institute Archive – the world’s largest. The broadcast was billed as a “scintillating look at the 1960s drag renaissance” and named the venue the “palladium of drag”. It’s well worth a look. Click the image to find out more*.

*People outside the UK may not be able to view the the documentary. It’s a broadcasting rights thing, I guess!

A Load of Bowls

The sedate game of bowls has ancient roots going way back to the time of the pharaohs. Nowadays, the Brit variety is traditionally associated with carefully manicured greens, well-versed etiquette and the grey herd in their virgin white togs. But in recent years, this most genteel of sports has attracted fresher blood, none more so than our own Chedgrave Bowls Club. After a period of decline, the club was newly invigorated with the young and the bold in their trendy multi-coloured livery and a thirst for glory.

Come a sunny summer’s day, we occasionally pop along to watch them play an end or three. While we don’t really have the first clue what’s going on, it’s a pleasant way to spend a warm afternoon with a couple of G&Ts – ice and a slice. And I get to wave my pom poms about, much to the disapproval of the tut-tutting traditionalists.

Nevertheless, the game remains a bastion of gentlemanly (and gentlewomanly) behaviour. Or does it? Not according to author Melvyn Clark. He’s written a risqué exposé called Fun, Sex and a Load of Bowls which is partly inspired by the real-life events of his own days on the green. His book is so “saucy”, he said, that his publisher had to “calm it down”. It makes me wonder if there’s a lot more than tea and crumpets going on in our local bowls hut. I might stick my head round the door next time we’re passing, just to check. Because, it’s just not cricket.

Flirty Birds and Ruffled Feathers

After a relentlessly dull and drizzly winter – unseasonally wet even for these notoriously showery islands – the sun finally poked through the low cloud and the mercury started to rise. It’s almost time for the annual garden nip and tuck and to call in the chimney sweep. Let’s hope it’s not a false dawn. Mother Nature can be a fickle mistress, and the old girl has been in a filthy mood of late.

Right on cue, flirty birds are feeling horny, pumping up the volume during the morning squawk. Light sleeper Liam was woken by a particularly lively gig. Curious to know what had ruffled his feathers, he took to his handy phone app to identify the culprits. It turned out to be a mixed choir of woodpigeons, jackdaws, moorhens, robins, redwings, and collared doves, with solos from a hooting tawny owl and a rat-tat-a-tatting woodpecker.

Redwing
Jackdaw
Woodpecker
Woodpigeon
Robin
Moorhen
Collared Dove
Tawny Owl

I, on the other hand, could sleep through a hurricane and didn’t hear the chirpy, chirpy, cheep cheep.

Cue the completely unrelated 1971 number 1 from the Scottish band Middle of the Road. Thanks for the memory.

There’s Still Life in the Old Blog Yet

When I started this blogging lark way back in October 2010, life in pansies HQ was a different place – different house, different town, different country. Remarkably, the blog took off almost immediately – a bit of a sell-out tour, in fact. It led to that book followed by that sequel and the rest, as they say…

When Liam and I packed up our drag in our old kit bags and paddled back to Blighty on the evening tide, I expected Perking the Pansies to wither on the vine like some dried-up old fruit. But this dried-up old fruit soldiered on, posting regularly but less often. And despite the radical change of scene and my doomster predictions, my random ramblings have continued to pull in the punters with respectable viewing figures. This is particularly gratifying these days with the rise of TikTokers and podcasters, when traditional blogging is a bit old hat.

Just recently, though, my hits surged to dizzying heights – stats for January alone have exceeded those for the whole of 2025.

When numbers unexpectedly swelled in the past, it was because a particular post struck a chord or had been featured elsewhere in the blogosphere. But this time round, the renewed interest in my camp old nonsense is more random, spread across a host of old witterings with no discernible pattern. I know not why. I shall simply bask in the glory – while it lasts. Because it won’t.

Wuthering Heights – Wild and Windy, Moody and Broody

What better way to spend Valentine’s Day than a love story at the flicks? So that’s what we did. But this wasn’t any old love story. Oh no. This was the latest cinematic reimagining of Emily Brontë’s epic novel Wuthering Heights, as sweeping as the desolate Yorkshire landscape it’s set against. This new version was produced, written and directed by the multi-talented Emerald Fennell, and her take on this Gothic classic has divided opinion. Some purists see it as too far removed from the written word. Yes, Fennell does play fast and loose with the original plot – as have others before her. Nevertheless, the intense, obsessive and destructive love which lies at the heart of this timeless tale had us hooked from the very first scene, touching and disturbing in equal measure. This was no lightweight Barbara Taylor Bradford Sunday night period mini-soap. We were glued to the screen all the way to the very bitter end.

Drop-dead gorgeous Margot Robbie and the sex-on-legs Jacob Elordi strut and sizzle, bonk and bristle, utterly convincing as the doomed lovers, Catherine and Heathcliff. It’s hardly a spoiler alert to say it doesn’t end well. The supporting cast is excellent too. A special mention has to go to both the location – the wild and wuthering moody moors of God’s own county – and a stonking soundtrack that struck the right broody note.

Here’s the trailer…