Norwich is a retiring kind of town, the perfect place to hang up your boots. The micro-loft is the ideal roost, a lift just wide enough for a mobility scooter (I fancy a tiffany blue number with a harlequin shopping basket in fuchsia), tiny bills that won’t break the piggy bank and a small enough footprint to make light work of domestic drudgery. We’re spitting distance from the local quack for all those inconvenient ailments that get us all in the end. The medical centre comes with a handy on-site Boots for the pills and potions that will keep us going beyond our three score and ten (fingers crossed). And, when one of us does drop off the perch, the Co-operative funeral parlour is right next door (I hear they do a lovely spread, or is that spread you out lovely?) with the Samaritans opposite for the grieving widower. Should either of us try to hedge our bets by finding Jesus at the last minute, we’ve got a church on the corner. Amen to that.

12 thoughts on “Retiring Norwich

  1. Isn’t it funny how our nesting requirements shift as we age? When I was in my 20’s I wanted a house, with lots of space. Fast forward almost 40 years, and the new space I chose is just big enough for my stuff and small enough to clean, located in a senior’s complex with all the essentials. Must say there’s not a funeral parlour nearby though–although there are gardening plots beside my apartment that might come in handy. 🙂

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