Tag: Costa Coffee

Google Before You Go

Google Before You Go

BoudiccaA bright spring sky and a benign forecast enticed us out for a countryside foray. We fancied a look around a reconstructed Iceni village near the hamlet of Cockley Cley (there’s a joke in there somewhere but I’m damned if I can find it). Cast your minds back to the history books of your early school days and the chapter on Queen Boudicca (Boadicea). As the story goes, the Iceni were a Celtic tribe who lived in what is now the county of Norfolk. Following the Claudian conquest of 43 AD, King Prasutagus of the Iceni (Boudicca’s other half) kept his crown by taking the Emperor’s shilling and becoming a client of the Romans. When he died, he left his lush forests and clearings in equal share to his two daughters and fiddling Nero. The perfidious Romans ignored his Will, flogged Boudicca, raped her daughters and took the lot for themselves. Dowager Boudicca was seriously pissed off. Bent on revenge, she joined up with other revolting tribes and went on the rampage. The startled Romans got quite a kicking and the rebellion nearly succeeded in booting the double-crossing conquerors out on their toga’d arses. The insurrection failed in the end but not before the rebels torched London (the first great fire), Colchester and St Albans, slaughtering the inhabitants. Folklore has it that the old Norfolk broad is buried under platform 9 or 10 of Kings Cross Station in London.

We stopped for tea in nearby Swaffham, a pretty market town with kerb appeal and a sprinkling of charm. Sadly, it was closed for the winter (apart for the odd charity shop and the ubiquitous and over-priced Costa Coffee). We climbed back into the car and headed south, passing open fields populated with freakish scarecrows dressed like the Ku Klux Klan. Liam muttered something about Jerry Springer the Opera and sped on towards the Iceni village. Contrary to the forecast, it started to rain. More by luck than judgement, we found the faux settlement hidden along a nondescript country lane. The gates were firmly locked, like Swaffham, closed for winter.

Memo to self – next time you fancy dipping your fat toe into the history of the Ancient Brits, Google before you go.

Lofty Pretentions

After viewings that ranged from the dreary to the dreadful, we found our Norwich city centre loft in appropriately named Queen’s Street. It’s a newly converted top-floor, top drawer flat with skylights, down lights and grey appliances with real feel-appeal. Yes, we are that shallow. The apartment is above a trendy bar with a student clientele. We’d rather hoped it would be a seedy clip joint to cement the sanitised neo-Bohemian garret theme we were looking for. Back at the letting agents, we paid our fee for our credit assessment. Without being prompted, the nice young man processed our application as a married couple which gave us a bit of a discount.

On the last evening of our exploratory week, we celebrated our continued good fortune at the Premier Inn restaurant where the fare was surprisingly good and wine surprisingly fine. As we raised our glasses, we watched the smart suits with smart phones file in two by two. It sent a visible shudder down Liam’s spine as he was rudely reminded of his old laboured life. “Never again,” he muttered. Our young waiter was a busy walker who darted about dispensing friendly but unobtrusive service to his charges. Now we’ve left Turkish airspace, my gaydar is fully-functional and we exchanged sly we-both-know-what-we-are glances. At the end of his shift, he joined us for a large glass of red and a little casual conversation. He’d recently moved from Devon to Norwich to be with his new partner and gave us the low down on the low life of the Norwich gay scene. Apparently, times were tough when he first got off the bus. It took him three months to find a job. He said:

“I was the assistant manager of a motorway service station. It had a Burger King and a Costa Coffee. I was trained in both. They said I was over-qualified.”