Tag: Summer in Norfolk

Dancing in the Rain

Dancing in the Rain

What better way to raise our spirits after the misery of Brexit and the rise of the loony right than a street party? Thank the Lord Mayor for his big day. Last year, we sizzled under a cloudless sky. This year sunshine and showers were on the menu, but this didn’t dampen our ardour or the enthusiasm of the performers. From ballerinas to buskers, breakdance to bangra, choristers to elderly brass bandeliers, the mad mix of turns – on the stages, on the streets and on the floats – proved Norwich folk are truly bonkers. Amen to that!

Despite sinking one sherry too many, we made it to the fireworks finale – just. Sadly, the next day we didn’t manage to roll out of our pit in time to cheer on the dressed-up waterfowl in the annual duck race.

For pure foot tapping joy, you can’t beat a bit of Bollywood. It brought the proverbial house down. To end this madness, I give you bangra and bangs…

Norwich Pride 2014

We’ve had a good run of sun so far this summer and there was no rain on the Pride Parade. Old queens that we are, we watched the Technicolor pageant from the balcony of the Theatre Royal with a triumphant glass of chilled white. A striking feature of this year’s procession was Umbrellas of Love created by local artist Vince Laws, highlighting the desperate plight of many LGBT people throughout the Commonwealth, particularly poignant as the Commonwealth Games are currently being held in Glasgow. According to the Commonwealth Charter, member states agree to respect and protect human rights. Total crap of course. It’s illegal to be gay in 42 of the Commonwealth 53 nations where punishment ranges from the terrifying to the barbaric – 10 years imprisonment to execution. And don’t get me started on female genital mutilation. So there it is, the Commonwealth Charter is just so much cheap toilet paper.

My underpowered Samsung so-called smart phone wasn’t smart enough to do justice to the fun and frolics of the parade. For a good selection, take a gander at the Norwich Pride Facebook page.

Coach and Horses

After the procession we re-grouped in the Coach and Horses pub to quench our thirsts. Today, of course, we have terminal wine flu.

Erection Day

Erection Day

Scaffolder

As far as British summers go, 2013 wasn’t that bad – a nice opening, a moist middle and a glorious finish (sounds like someone I know). A few rainy days but little to write home about, apart from one late evening a few weeks ago. Mother Nature threw a hissy fit and chucked a squally storm across the flatlands – snap, crackle and pop, with water coming at us from all angles like an out of control car wash. I was busy tippy-tapping when I noticed a small dribble of water gently trickle down the wall from the corner of the ceiling, rolling behind my laptop screen. Liam and I ascended to our boudoir tucked into the eaves to investigate and, yes, you guessed it, the roof had sprung a leak. An urgent call to our landlady led to a quick inspection by a middle-aged builder sporting a beer-belly and fetching multi-coloured socks, chosen by his daughter, he told me.

Erection day came. I was minding my own business when my attention was drawn to a fella in the semi-buff with more muscles than Brussels playing with his poles right within my line of sight. Yes, him and his tools were only feet away. It was all a bit like a car crash – you know you shouldn’t look but you just can’t help it. Not a lot got done that afternoon, I can tell you, not with the steamed-up spectacles and dripping windows. It all brought back cheerful memories of my x-rated peak-time thirties and that Diet Coke Ad (the original, not the recent sequel). Who said life in Norwich was boring?

Last of the Summer Wine

Last of the Summer Wine

Jo Jack and LiamFor a glorious tail-end to summer, the flip flops were dusted down and the shorts were washed out for a final flourish and a sunny bite with my publisher Jo Parfitt, the tour de force who is Summertime Publishing. Jo was passing through the county, visiting her folks before she sets sail on her latest expat expedition, this time to Malaysia. Jo treated us to a gastro-pub lunch at the Orange Tree in Thornham, on the north Norfolk coast. It was an unmissable chance to cruise through the bread basket of England during harvest time while it’s still above sea level. Thornham is a picture-postcard hamlet dripping with money, converted barns and upmarket holiday lets, the kind of place featured on those minor-channel relocation programmes like ‘Escape to the Country.’ Liam loves to watch these shows but since we don’t quite have half a million stashed away in an off-shore piggy bank, watching is all we ever get to do. The pub grub was delicious and Jo was delightful, as were her splendid parents who popped along for a glass. While Jo is sipping Singapore Slings on her latest posting, she’s asked me to join her small cohort of trusted confidantes, a huge complement and a nice little earner. So, to Ms Parfitt, I thank you. To Summertime authors, if your Kindle file goes tits-up, on my head be it.

What a Bleedin’ Scorcher!

What a Bleedin’ Scorcher!

Yesterday, it was the hottest day of the year so far and, as Andy Murray served his way to a decisive straight-sets victory at Wimbledon, the temperature at the sizzling Centre Court cauldron soared to 50 degrees celcius. Despite our national obsession with all things meteorological, extreme weather events are relatively rare in Blighty. So too is domestic air-conditioning. It simply isn’t worth the expense for the few days of the year it’s needed. When the mercury rises, some innovative Brits resort to some quirky ways to avoid melting in the midday sun. I snapped this sweaty soul’s sweaty sole along Muspole Street.

Muspole Street Feet