I see some weird and wonderful stuff about Norwich and its long and glorious history. Perhaps the weirdest and most wonderful is about the city’s lost loos from Secret Norwich called ‘Spending a Penny’. For those beyond these shores who may not know, spending a penny is a polite euphemism for taking a pee. The phrase apparently dates from the 19th century, particularly the hugely popular 1851 Great Exhibition, when public toilets at the Crystal Palace required an old one-penny coin to use the lock-up. Where better than a gent’s loo to find a row of knobs?
Nowadays, public facilities are an endangered species. Most have been closed due to rising costs and ‘anti-social behaviour’ – I can’t imagine what that means – which is a bit of a drag for us old farts with dicky bladders, particularly when tottering home after one too many sherries. Ironically, urine-soaked streets after a night out on the lash is why public loos were opened in the first place. Not that we do that sort of thing, of course. We keep our knobs firmly under wraps. But that Tena Man moment edges ever closer.
I received sad news of the sudden and unexpected death of someone I once knew well. Paul and I were firm friends at secondary school. We were in the same first year and bonded over comparing packed lunches in a ‘you show me yours and I’ll show you mine’ kinda way as we walked around the playing fields at break time. His sarnies were always more upper crust. It was 1972 and salami and other fancy foreign fillings weren’t on the menu in my working-class home. But Mum made up for it by slipping a chocolate bar into my box. Together with my old mucker, Clive, we were ‘The Three Fey Musketeers’, a phrase I first used in 2011 when I wrote…
Clive and I know one another from our salad days. In those distant times we were two of the three fey musketeers. Our third partner in camp crime was Paul who jumped the good ship Blighty many decades ago to dwell in a Parisian garret and chain-smoke Gitanes. Birds of a feather flock together. We somehow knew we were different and so did everyone else. We were relentlessly teased from the moment we entered the school gates. Nothing physical, you understand. That would be unseemly at a traditional grammar school with 400 years of history. Besides, beatings were reserved for the teachers to discharge. I suppose we hardly helped our cause by being rubbish at rugby and lip-synching to the backing vocals of Mott the Hoople’s Roll Away the Stone in Clive’s front room. Our sex education consisted of lecturing hormonal adolescents on the evils of masturbation. It nearly caused a riot.
After school, Paul and I gradually grew apart as life took us down very different paths. Clive and I, on the other hand, remained close. After Paul left for gay Paree, I only saw him once in a rare blue moon. But I hope he died as he had lived, holding court in a French café with a fruity little red in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Back in 2020, Clive died suddenly, and my last brief encounter with Paul was at Clive’s funeral. Clive’s death hit me hard; Paul’s not so much. But even so, it was still a shock. It got me thinking of our teen years when the three of us were practically joined at the hip. Here’s the only photo I have of Paul and Clive together. I took it while waiting to catch the 37 bus home, probably during that long hot summer of ’76. Clive’s on the right playing the ghoul and Paul’s in the middle wearing the Bowie badge. The boy on the left is Carl, another old school chum. I wonder where he is now. The fuzzy old pic stirred up memories of the fun times and made me regret that we hadn’t made more of an effort to keep in touch.
I must confess, the tragic news of Paul’s death has also got me thinking about my own mortality as the last man standing. And then there was one 😔
Good old Norwich has been crowned the best place to live in the land for 2026 by The Sunday Times. Judges heaped praise on the city for its ‘historic character’ and ‘urban buzz’. No shit, Sherlock. Those in the know have known that for years. It was something that slapped us about the face when we first paddled up the River Wensum back in 2012.
As I wrote for the Visit Norwich City of Stories website back in the day…
And that’s how it happened. One heady afternoon in the garden of the Playhouse Theatre Bar, Jack and Liam found somewhere new to lay their hats. An offbeat, theatrical, cosmopolitan, romantic, open-minded and open-hearted place set beneath the true-blue skies of Norfolk. Norwich, a surprising city. A place to live and a place to start living.
We may now have moved 10 miles out for a semi-rural quieter life, but we still regularly hop on the bus into town to soak up the vibe – because we’re not dead yet.
At last, Liam’s liberation day has come to pass. Six weeks following surgery on his shoulder to repair a rotator cuff tear, Liam can finally fling that sling. He’s cleared the first hurdle in an ouch-ouch-ouch, pill-popping, slow-shuffle marathon that will last up to six months. We’re both mightily relieved. Me, because the end is nigh for my chief cook and bottle washer days and saintly Florence Nightingale ways. He, because he’s well on recovery road, and evil Nurse Ratched will soon hang up his apron and cap for good.
Thank you to all those who rallied round with cards and kind words, pot plants, lifts, fizz, tasty ox cheeks and spicy sausage casseroles. You know who you are.
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! 🤞
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.
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.
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.
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.
Perking the Pansies 