Six Months In Norwich

Closed

2009-07-26T14:31:00.001+01:00

Six Months In Norwich turned to nine and then to twelve. My life in Norwich continues at:

http://richardfair.blogspot.com/

and

http://notesandqwertys.blogspot.com/

Getting the point

2009-02-21T21:30:00.003Z

While I was sat in the Puppet Theatre on Wednesday evening waiting for a meeting to start, I was handed a box of blunt and broken pencils. I was also handed two pencil sharpeners; one broken and one blunt.

I struggled on and managed to get a point on most of them, but the sound and smell of sharpening pencils took me back to my pencil monitor days at school (I was the only pupil trusted with sharp objects).

So today I popped along to Jarrolds for something a little more sturdy than the usual fiddly sharpeners you get nowadays. And there it was; the Swordfish manual Pencil Sharpener with extendable front plate and auto-stop feature.

Not exactly the same as the one from school, but a similar model that works in the same way, gently feeding the pencil towards the rotating blades. And the sound and the smell.

I now have the pointiest pencils in Norwich and the satisfaction that my Saturday wasn't totally wasted.

I bought a self-inking Date Stamp as well, so I know what I'll be doing tomorrow...

It's been a while

2009-02-20T17:40:00.003Z

I have somewhat neglected the Blog for a few days and so my penance is a catch-up session that will give you a flavour of what life outside of work holds for me in this wonderful city.

Result #1

First of all (and I know I said I would never speak of it again, in fact I think I actually said it twice, but anyway) the John Lewis saga has drawn to a close; almost. I had a letter from their Customer Services Manager apologising for their shortcomings with regard to my online order. They admit total responsibility and are at pains to point out in detail how they failed with the very basics of customer service. The letter also included, as a ‘more tangible expression’ of his apology, a handful of shopping vouchers. A definite result in favour of the customer.

Result #2(ish)

A letter arrived from Borders in Chapelfield, Norwich in reply to my complaint about the sticky price labels on the New Yorker Magazine. I had pointed out that the cover art of the magazine in question was very much part of the whole experience and that randomly stuck bright orange stickers were unwelcome.

The manager of the shop wrote back with a detailed explanation as to why the stickers were there and an even more detailed guide as to the best way to remove them. This short extract deals with a larger, white label that is stuck on the bottom left hand corner of the magazine;

“The barcoded one is applied by the importer, as the original barcode does not register in the UK and therefore a new one is applied that works through our tills. This may come off if you soak it lightly with a damp cloth for a few seconds although there is a risk of water damage if too much is applied, so I would not recommend this unless you find it very offensive.”

WH Smiths

Perhaps worthy of another letter, I do find WH Smith’s policy to try and sell you chocolate very offensive. Every time I go in there to buy something they try and force feed me some kind of delicious confectionery at the till. Something is half price or on special offer because I’m standing on two feet or is discounted today only to our fat customers... Stop it.

Thanks for the plug

There was a time when you bought electrical goods and then had the excitement of not knowing if it had a plug on it until you got home. Now all new goods that need to be plugged onto the wall get the thing you plug it in with; a plug. Same this can’t be the same for batteries.

In the past couple of weeks I’ve bought three items that require a battery or batteries. Two came with the batteries included the third didn’t.

And while I’m moaning about electrical goods, I was in Curry’s Digital in Norwich on Wednesday. While I was in there looking at stuff, a chap came in asking about iPod docking stations. He was flash-mobbed by a dozen or so staff all keen to sell him the very best model they had. “What does it sound like?” Seemed like a reasonable question for him to ask.

“Do you have your iPod with you?” came the reply. He didn’t. Much like I wouldn’t have expected him to have brought his girlfriends ears with him as he was actually buying it for her. “Have you not got an iPod here you could demonstrate it with?” he asked looking round the shelves of Curry’s Digital. “Not one we can use I’m afraid. I didn’t bring mine as I wasn’t on the bus today.”

It’s comforting to know that Curry’s Digital’s staff do their bit for the environment by using public transport from time to time. I just wonder if he’d had to walk to work that day because the Bus Driver turned up expecting the passengers to provide the bus.

Let’s end on a high

Shazam. What more can I say? Shazam is an iPhone App(lication) that helps you to identify any piece of music you hear playing. Sat in a cab, in a doctor waiting room (not in Curry’s Digital unless you take something to play it on), in a lift; where ever you hear music and are in desperate need to know what it is you just fire up the App(lication) and within seconds it gives you all details of the track.

Then, of yes the miracle doesn’t end there, it asks if you’d like to download it there and then from the iTunes Store. Fantastic.

It’s costing me a bloody fortune.

"Great venue for live music"

2009-02-08T15:02:00.004Z

Not my words, but the words of either Miller or Moore.

We were all gathered at the Norwich Puppet Theatre for a benefit gig to help the theatre continue to get back on its feet.

So first up were Miller and Moore. They were blown on by a West Coast breeze that put me in mind of the Eagles. I half expected to be waving a cigarette lighter for Hotel California, however as far as I know the only cover they did was of a Bee Gees song that required no naked flames; or covering.

Then, after a short break while the stage was reset and the people behind me discussed the colour of their 'gummy' sweets, Huck appeared. Now I've not seen or heard Huck before, something that very quickly became something of an issue for me as they gave the best performance of the night. Normally thrashing around to a heavier sound, I read, Huck had gone all acoustic.

Matt Watson's vocals, at times nodding towards Kelly Jones (Sterophonics), were as crisp as his guitar playing and apart from a brushes malfunction by drummer Al Richardson, their set was perfectly balanced.

If I'd been heading home at that point I would have been more than happy with the value for money on the ticket, but it wasn't over yet and I still had a half a plastic glass of house red to finish off.

Next up The Steve Skaith Band.

Things didn't start well. The woman who plays the accordion for the band seemed to be having problems making the thing function properly. Lots of pointing, wire pulling, feedback, pinched expressions and more pointing before 'The Voice of Latin Quarter' and his band - which consisted one one other - were ready. Sadly others were not. "The lighting guy isn't back yet. Shall we just start without him?" Which they did.

The sound continued to be an issue for Steve, but he soldiered on, sipping tea between songs and looking very relaxed. Inevitably he did an updated version of Radio Africa, which he tells us is about to be brought right up to date.

And that was the entertainment for the evening. Oh, apart from the photographer. What a pain in the arse he was, moving round the auditorium throughout the whole thing, swapping lenses and rolling around on the floor for some arty shots. I was rather hoping the woman with the accordion would lose her rag and throw the thing at him.

Delivery Day

2009-02-07T14:00:00.014Z

The Parcel's Story
06/02/09 - 15:38:26   Sort Centre Droitwich Spa:   Sorted
07/02/09 - 06:12:35   Norwich Depot:   Received
07/02/09 - 06:50:35   Norwich Depot:   Loaded onto vehicle

My Story
06/02/09 - 15:02:37 Norwich:
Order placed. Slight excitement that it will be delivered in less than twenty-four hours.

07/02/09 - 02:48:46 Norwich:
Noise outside. Can't be delivery man, can it? Goes back to sleep.
07/02/09 - o3:01:01 Norwich:
What if it was someone taking something away rather than bringing something. Goes back to sleep.
04:21:33 - Toilet visit. Ponders sanity of purchase. Heads back to bed convinced I've done the right thing. Although...
05:30:00 - Birds outside wake me. Toilet visit.

07:19:21 - Wake suddenly. I've overslept and missed the delivery man. Check clock, it's only 07:19. Get up and check online tracking of parcel. It was loaded onto van half an hour ago. It could be here any minute.

08:11:34 - Someone on the radio talking about something totally unrelated to my parcel. Decide to risk toilet visit, "If he comes now, he comes now" I tell the window in the front room where's I've been stood for twenty minutes wondering if I dare risk a toilet visit.

08:24:08 - Check front step to see if parcel or card was left while in toilet.

08:46:11 - Risk shower. Leave all doors open so I can hear knock on front door.

08:48:00 - Leap out of shower, grab towel, run to door. No one there. False alarm. Return to shower which appears to have self-adjusted it's temperature.

09:52:33 - Give up on Guardian Quick crossword. Mind on other things. The parcel is bound to be here soon and then I can play.

10:43:26 - Washed up after breakfast. Washing in machine. Rubbish in bin. No parcel. Check online tracking of parcel. It was loaded onto van at 06:50:35.

11:32:13 - Rearranged living room slightly. Basically I've removed the table cloth and am now calling the dinner table 'my writing table'. Sit at my writing table and added church candle and matches to shopping list.

11:49:05 - Decide on an early lunch so that I'll still have time to go shopping after parcel arrives. Leaves all doors open so I can hear delivery man knock over sound of mushrooms frying. Check online tracking of parcel. It was loaded onto van at 06:50:35. Smoke alarm goes off. Panic, I can't hear anything other than the bloody smoke alarm. Check front door. Open back door. Smoke alarm stops. Check front door again.

12:17:45 - Check online tracking of parcel. It was loaded onto van at 06:50:35. Hang washing up. Close back door. Put heating on.

13:41:41 - Next door dogs barking. This is it.

13:42:10 - Wave to next door as they arrive back for somewhere.

14:01:20 - Check order for parcel to see if it really is meant to be delivered today. It is. Check online tracking of parcel. It was loaded onto van at 06:50:35. WD40 a couple of hinges.

14:43:56 - Check Twitter and Facebook. Get depressed reading about all the things other people are doing with their Saturday. Draw a picture of a van crashing off road into tree.

14:53:22 - Suddenly realise that Norwich are playing at home and van may be stuck in traffic. Or he may have actually had an accident. Screw up drawing. Check online tracking of parcel in case there's any mention of the the accident. The parcel was loaded onto van at 06:50:35
15:08:44 - Investigating strange smell. May be slippers again.
15:12:59 - Double checked the Order. Delivery could be any time up to 18.00. May have to chance another toilet trip soon. Not related to first item at 15:08.
15:15:08 - Check online tracking of parcel. 13:30:39 - Unable to deliver Address Query

15:16:08 - Call supply company. Tell my story. Told to call delivery company. Delivery company answerphone says that they close at 14.00 on a Saturday.

15:20ish - Call company company back. Tell them my story again. Told that they didn't have full postal address. I read out my full postal address from copy of their Order Receipt, also mentioning the fact that it states that delivery would be up to 18.00 on a Saturday. Told that there's nothing they can do until Monday when the delivery company... I interrupt to say that my contract is with them, not the delivery company. That I want my item delivered Monday morning - to the address on the Order Receipt and I want an immediate refund of £6.75 postage for Saturday delivery. Told that it is company policy not to refund postage until delivery is complete. I tell them that it is my policy not to shop with John Lewis Direct ever again.

16:08:33 - Finally starting to get my Saturday back into some sort of shape. Called O2 with PAC number so I can have my old number on my new phone. What a breath of fresh air that was. Phone should switch on Wednesday. Chatted with guy about SIM cards for a while. Stopped short of asking if he's on Twitter.

16:10:00- Looking up John Lewis Direct and Home Delivery Network addresses. They will be getting letters, although I suspect that even with the right postcode there's a chance they'll not get them.

Postscript to Parcel's Story
07/02/09 - 13:30:39 Norwich Depot: Unable to deliver Address query

Postscript to My Story
08/02/09 - 11:01:37 - Called in O2 shop for screen cover for iPhone. Spotted gadget I was expecting from JL. Bought gadget.

08/02/09 - 12:31:17 - Called JL and cancelled order.

Let us never speak of it again.

Final Postscript to My Story
09/02/09 - 10:51:01 - Home Delivery Network arrive with parcel. Sent away with parcel.

Now, really, no more mentions.

Getting on my pip

2009-02-05T14:37:00.004Z

Shop Assistant: Can I help at all?
Me: Do you know if there's an Apple Store in Norwich?
SA: Is there something in particular you're looking for?
Me: Yes; an Apple Store.

SA: (Slight laugh) No, I meant is there something I could help you with?

Me: Well I was rather hoping you'd help by telling me if there's an Apple Store in Norwich.

SA: (laughs proper this time) I'm sorry, it's just that we do carry a lot of Apple stock here and...

Me: Is this the Apple Store?

SA: No. We just...

Me: Where is it?
SA: There isn't one. But we do...

There isn't an Apple Store in Norwich. I'm told the nearest could be Cambridge. But I do know a shop where they stock.....

Dabble

2009-02-03T20:25:00.004Z

I've been having a bit of a dabble on Twitter. I'm wondering if it would help with our promotion of the Norwich Puppet Theatre. I still need to explore more.

We're already looking at other Internet tools to help us get the message out about what's going on at the theatre and there's a new Facebook group launching very soon.

What I don't want to do is bombard people with Puppet Theatre stuff, but then again I don't want anyone to say, 'Oh we didn't know xyz was on...'

Rant

While I mention Twitter, there's a little thing that really bugs me about it. Most days you get a new Follower who, out of politeness, you go and have a look at their feed. See who they are and what they do. Nine point nine times out of ten they're ordinary folk just Tweeting away like everyone else.

But there are those who spoil it for everyone else. Their feed seems harmless enough. Then they send you a private message asking for some feedback about their blog - which you go to. Only it isn't a blog, it's a site about Co-Op Insurance (not to be confused with THE Co-Op). No, not porn or drugs to extend your stamina or body parts, but an advert for Co-Op Insurance. Needless to say he'll not be following me any more.

It's not so much the fact that the guy is using Twitter to promote his business, hey that's kinda what I want to do with the Puppet Theatre. It's just the stealth way he goes about it. "Please tell me what you think about my blog..." Well it stinks.

If you're having to hide it behind a so called blog what else are you trying to hide? Tosser.

Rant over

Pass me my milk and ginger biscuits.

Afterthought
I bet there's an Internet word for the likes of him.

January heads off to somewhere warmer

2009-01-31T20:54:00.005Z

Anti-climb paint fascinates me. How does it work and more importantly, is it effective?

I spotted this sign on the Riverside path close to Prince of Wales Road in Norwich. Two things strike me as odd.

Firstly, I can't actually see any paint. So is it invisible?

Secondly, one can only presume that it's not effective on ivy.

First snowdrops?

Just close by this well-sheltered crop of snowdrops are the earliest I've seen.

The bitter winds of the north have returned to remind us that winter is far from over.

I just hope that they're not going to be too sensitive when the promised snow falls over the next couple of days.

But in that strange way that shops rotate their stock, short-sleeved shirts and shorts have already started to replace the woolly jumpers and scarves.

Stay with me on this one...

2009-01-26T17:18:00.001Z

Is it too late to change our minds about the 2012 Olympics? I only ask because I think we should request that the XXX Olympiad be replaced by It’s A Knockout. In fact, forget the Olympics. It’s A Knockout should replace the United Nations, ACAS and the Small Claims Court.

Think about it. Representatives from both sides of an argument could dress up as a pregnant cow and the one that transfers the most milk into a dustbin full of holes is the winner. The referee has the final say and both cows shake hoofs and accept the result without a shot ever being fired.

How can it fail? When Newcastle beat Widnes in the 1972 It’s A Knockout final in front of a packed crowd at Armstrong Park, Widnes accepted defeat graciously and didn’t go on to launch a counter attack the following year by dropping rancid sausages on the City Library. They simply got back onto the team bus and drowned their sorrows with Party 7 cans of Double Diamond and thought no more of it.

And why couldn’t the same happen with warring nations? Better still if the head of state is made to compete in the Mini Marathon and has to swim through melted chocolate with a mouth full of marshmallows and six pound of crushed almonds in their knapsack. Did I mention that they were dressed up as giant squid?

It really could happen at every level of dispute. Next door’s leylandii tree has doubled in height since last Sunday and now you can’t see next-door-but-one sunbathing. Instead of threatening to see them in court, you simply challenge them to a contest to see who can get the furthest up the street while tied to a piece of elastic; dressed up as a French Maid with halitosis.

Obviously when it comes to disputes over land on an international scale, we’d also have to have Elite It’s A Knock Out, which could mean that those with disabilities could end up living under different governments but still in the same country as their able-bodied friends. But give me some more time and I’ll think that one through a bit more.

As I write I can hear the sound of Herb Alpert in my head blowing out the It’s A Knockout theme tune and can imagine President Obama slipping into a turkey costume filled with custard ready to face up to Osama bin Laden in an itching powder-filled pillow fight over a tank of Polish immigrants. But wait, what’s this? Obama is playing his joker. If he wins this one he’ll automatically solve the Israeli problem too. There’s everything to play for. Arthur, blow the whistle.

Of course there has to be a downside. It’s only a matter of time before someone sets up a ‘Bring Back Stuart Hall’ group on Facebook. Eddie Waring had the right idea.

Driving Miss Crazy

2009-01-21T20:19:00.003Z

A learner driver passed me on the road today. The car they were in advertised that the driving school had a unique selling point: "British Sign Language supported lessons available."

I couldn't help but wonder if they'd taught all the taxi and white van drivers.

Actually that's a cheap joke at the expense of some of the most polite drivers I've ever shared a pavement with.

No, really, traffic stops to let pedestrians cross the road (even at Zebra Crossings), cars let other cars out at junctions and one driver did actually apologise for parking on the pavement where I was intending to walk. "Sorry mate, I've just got to drop these chips off for my mother." I suppose expecting him to park in St Giles would have meant his poor mum would have had a cold supper.

But now I'm thinking about these British Sign Language lessons. Is it not distracting to have someone waving their hands about in your face as you're trying to negotiate a difficult junction.

What if you want to ask the instructor something? Is it safe to take both hands off the wheel to enquire if the "honk if you're horny" bumper sticker on the car in front is compulsory in a built up area after dark?

A truly historic day

2009-01-20T20:51:00.004Z

My SatNav announced that I'd reached my destination. But a glance at the boarded-up building on my right suggested that something wasn't quite right.

I may have, until now, only seen Norwich through rose tinted glasses, but I was aware that like every other city up and down the country, there would be 'rough' areas. But surly things in this part of town were not that bad as to require children to be chained into their school and deprived of natural light.

I was in totally the wrong place. The school had long moved out to new premises and not bothered to update their website. So I called them to get their current postcode, that I duly punched into my SatNav.

Two little arms popped out of the side of the SatNav and clutched at the screen before the whole thing went blank. TomTom was gone gone. I was without the proverbial paddle.

I remembered spotting a garage at the end of the road. They'd have street maps.

"We're not a library," said the woman behind the counter who'd spotted me behind the crisp rack thumbing through a worn copy of the local street plan. "My SatNav's packed up and I need to find..." I didn't get to the end of my sentence as the woman had already rung up the cost of the book into the till.

Back in the car my SatNav had miraculously recovered and took me straight to my destination without so much as a "Sorry for the inconvenience". Something I didn't get from the school either, when they told me that they'd rearranged my meeting and had informed everyone else, and, on reflection, thought that perhaps they should have got a message to me to. "It's tomorrow now at the same time." The same time that I'll be in Newmarket.

Rude people in Norwich are like buses. Wait four and half months for one and then two come at once.

Six become ten

Norwich is such a hard place to get to. When you arrive people tell you that it's even harder to leave. I was only meant to be here for six months. That's now been extended to ten. But you won't find me complaining. Well perhaps only about rude people.

Spider!

2009-01-13T18:53:00.003Z

It was huge; and you should have seen the size of his big brother who blinked on his picture and insisted I didn't publish it.

I'm sure someone will identify which branch of the man-eating family he's from, but to be honest I'd rather remain ignorant.

But I would like to know if they whistle. I suspect that it's actually the tuneful distractions of Andrew from next door, but I've only ever heard the whistling while the spider was on the wall in my bedroom.

If they do whistle I may have to reconsider the way I feel about them, especially as they tend to be nocturnal.

FA Cup fever

It's the big game tonight. Norwich v Charlton in the FA Cup 3rd Round Replay. I've had an early tea and plan to settle myself down with a drink, a small bowl of peanuts and something that will totally distract me from any of the coverage.

concatenation : the linking together of a consecutive series of symbols or events or ideas etc

2009-01-13T10:01:00.002Z

Just by reading these few works could trigger a concatenation that could lead to both of us being very wealthy.

I was listening to a short story being read on The New Yorker podcast. When it finished I picked up my copy of The Groucho Letters. As suggested on the cover, it contains a selection of correspondence from one of the wittiest performers of vaudeville, Groucho Marx. His one-liners were priceless, often cutting, but always very, very funny.

The very next letter I read from Groucho was to The New Yorker, a magazine that on more than one occasion published articles by the funniest of Marx brothers. Coincidence?

But this wasn’t an isolated case. Since my arrival here in Norwich, countless numbers of TV and radio programmes have talked about this place, from serious news to light trivia and even a bit of gentle leg-pulling by Harry Hill.

Some would say that my awareness for all things Norwich is a direct result of the fact that the name is always in my thoughts and that my internal search engine seeks out the word Norwich whenever mentioned. And I would accept this; if it wasn’t for the most remarkable of coincidences that occurred last evening.

I was at a meeting of the Norwich Puppet Theatre when someone used the word ‘concatenation’. They were challenged as to its meaning and I sat and felt somewhat relieved that I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t got a clue what they were talking about.

I rather liked the word; concatenation – so much so that I jotted it down with the intention of alerting all my Facebook friends to it and perhaps even including it in a blog posting.

So there it sat on my Facebook status – well to tell the truth the word that was actually sat there was ‘concatanation’but my spelling was soon pointed out.

And then it happened. I picked up the book I’m currently reading, Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks, The Essential Alan Coren. I navigated to the red ribbon bookmark nestling between pages 330 and 331. Chapter 53 – Salt in the Wound. And I began to read:

“I experienced a remarkable concatenation yesterday.” I read it again. “I experienced a remarkable concatenation yesterday.” I checked the spelling against the corrected Facebook status and the word I’d written down during the meeting. I wanted to ring someone and tell them. Anyone; but who do you ring about these kind of things? And that’s when the plan hit me.

I would write about the Premium Bonds and Lottery on the Blog. Then by coincidence I would win. Or you would win and send me a share of the winnings. A plan, going by current form, which could not fail. Wrong.

As I sit here now - 09.30 on Tuesday January 13th 2009 - a programme has just come on BBC Radio 4 talking about unclaimed prizes on the Premium Bonds and Lottery. And a word forms on my lips. A word I fully understand.

Ooo Betty

2009-01-10T22:41:00.002Z

Two things I never imagined seeing in Norwich were men wearing berets and Clarissa Dickson Wright streaking across the pitch at Carrow Road as the home team put six past Manchester United in the FA Cup semi final. However, I can cross one of those things off my list.

It's true, Clarissa..., sorry, I mean I have seen a man wearing a beret. In fact I tell a lie. I've seen two men wearing berets in Norwich. Not young fashionable types or elderly ex-army ones either. But middle-aged men. If by any chance either of you are reading this, can I ask; what on earth were you thinking?

Today I opened up The New Yorker magazine and what do I see? An advert for European Berets - modeled by a man. The last time I saw a man wearing a beret was at the Manchester Opera House in 2007. That man was Matthew Barney and he was allowed to wear a beret as he was directing two semi-naked women who were urinating on the stage while the rest of the 'cast' tried to arouse a bull. Fortunately the guys in Norwich were just shopping for loose tea or something similar.

Before that the beret was the chosen headgear of Frank Spencer, the BBC's hopeless and hapless comedy character played by Michael Crawford.

I have it on good authority that berets were first worn by Northern Basque peasants from the border around Southern France and Northern Spain.

Originally made from wool, the more popular material these days is felt.

The Scots, not wanting to ever be left out of an opportunity of nicking other people's great ideas (they stole the bagpipes from the Irish) have their own version of the beret called a Tam O' Shanter, which in turn stole its name from a Robert Burns poem:

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses.)

Outside of the military men should avoid wearing berets. In the world of fashion the only people who should wear them in public are women. Oh and the French. They can just about get away with wearing anything they like on their heads because they're just plain crazy.

If you'd like to make your own knitted beret then here's a useful video to help you.

Natural ice sculptures
I missed the annual ice sculptures in Norwich at Christmas, but not to worry, I had a spectacular walk in the frost today and the display of crystalised nature was spectacular.

There are more pictures on my Flickr site.

Rip rip rip went the trollies

2009-01-09T20:40:00.003Z

I have no way of ever knowing, but I suspect that when I was a baby I had some kind of nappy malfunction.

When I was at school I hated any kind of activity that required me being there, this included sport. I never went so far as to forge a note from my parents, but my excuses must have been convincing because the same un-faded gym kit lasted me all through my high school days and my pumps are still in the box.

But the PE teacher got wise and while he was willing to accept that my mouth ulcer meant I wasn't allowed to take part in physical exercise for three months in case it spread to my feet, he did start to give me jobs to do during lessons.

At first this turned out to be a gift from God as I was put on trampoline duty. I had to stand at the side of the trampoline and guard against anyone falling off. "Don't take you eyes off any of the girls while they are bouncing up and down," I was instructed.

This only caused problems elsewhere on my body so I was moved to the Long Jump Sand Pit. "If your sore hands start to hurt any more let me know and I'll get one of the kids in wheelchairs to do it," the teacher would say; seriously.

So this one day I was feeling somewhat energised by excess sugar consumption as a direct result of a third helping of Cornflake Tart in the school canteen. Rather than walking round the sand pit to get my rake I decided to jump across it. In a split second (literally) my trousers became the subject of high school legend as the crotch disintegrated and I was forced to sit in the needlework stockroom for an hour while Miss showed Class 4B how to piece back together the maelstrom.

I had a similar incident about four or five years ago while trying to get out of my seat at an Indian restaurant. "No dear, that wasn't me sitting on a poppadom, that was my trousers doing what trousers shouldn't do."

And so to today, I can write the next chapter of the Great Trouser Malfunctions In My Life book.

I've not had them long and up until now I've worn them incident-free; often in public. But today I couldn't get them off. I was a man trapped in his own trousers and the harder I tried to release myself, the worse things got.

It was all down to a piece of stray cotton that had somehow weaved itself into the zip and other than the fact that I'd recently read about some people wasting police time dialing 999 for stupid reasons, I would have dialed 999. At one point I actually considered calling to cancel the meeting I was due at an hour later.

But the good news is that I managed to free myself after about ten minutes and I'm still alive to tell the story. The cotton has been ceremoniously removed. Which of course will turn out to be the cause of the next wardrobe disaster some time next week.

Pot puri

2009-01-08T21:51:00.002Z

Invariably from time to time I end up with things I haven't blogged about but are on my 'blog about this' list. So here's a random gathering of things from the list that didn't make it into other postings.

Things I've said that I'm proud of
"Life would be perfect if I could just get someone to do all my delegating."
"We start by experimenting. Then we establish. Then we go back to the experimenting."

Things I've said that I'm not proud of

"You're never thirty four" - but in a tone that suggests I thought they were at least seventy.

Things I've heard
Two elderly people outside a shop in the Royal Arcade in Norwich looking at the sale items.
She: That's a lovely handbag
He: It's a hundred and fifteen pounds
She: Go ask them if they'll knock a hundred and ten off.

Two blokes in the Castle Mall in Norwich
Man 1: Not seen you for a while.

Man 2: I got into a spot of bother with my landlady and I had to find new digs.
Man 1: Oh dear, what happened?

Man 2: Her husband came home early.

Being old on the radio
For one reason or another the conversation I was having on Future Radio the other day got round to signs that you are getting old. For some people the first thing they notice is their hands. Realising that these two things that they've seen everyday suddenly look like they've been swapped with thier grandfather's.

The other way you realise that you've lost your baby faced features is when students deliberately don't hand you fliers for night clubs. Even the outside possibility of you being a mature student has been hidden away by the nostril and ear hair.

On not being as important as you once were

You fret all day when you discover that you've left your mobile phone at home. And then you get back nine hours later and find that you missed 0 calls and 0 messages. Oh, and there wasn't any post for me either.

If I ruled the world

2009-01-07T22:36:00.002Z

I was invited to be a guest on Future Radio today for an hour long feature about how things would change in the world if I was in charge.

I'd ban spiders for a start and all those people who, immediately after being told that you don't like spiders, pick them up and say; "Here, it won't kill you, look."

Spiders are evil and are quietly plotting to take over the world. If you don't believe me pop round to my place and I'll show you where they've being testing out some of their plans.

Awards
Next up I handed out a couple of awards to people missed off the New Year Honours list. I wasn't allowed to pick Stephen Fry because apparently everyone picks him and if he actually received all the awards he'd be bent double, which, on reflection, he might not complain about.

So my awards went first to the Norwich Puppet Man for his duty to never being distracted from the job in hand (or should that be on hand). No matter when I pass he's totally immersed in his work and wouldn't be distracted if a marching band of ostriches came past led by Delia Smith dressed as a Scotch Egg.

Second up for an award is the Big Issue seller close to St Peter Mancroft Church, for his duty to being totally distracted from the job in hand. He's always deep in conversation with someone, chatting away like he's known them for years. I've yet to see him sell a copy nor has he had the time to ask if I'd care to buy one.

Muck

For some reason my plans for the planet went off course a little as presenter Kate got me on to the subject of chewing gum and dog muck, eventually ending up at the point where I suggested that bridges should be made out of chewing gum. I think I may also have suggested that dogs in Chester are too well off to defecate. This of course isn't true. They do defecate, it's just that their owners take them into Wales to do it.

Buggles

I was asked to pick a record that would become my world anthem.

Last night, with a large glass of whisky in one hand and Hits Of The 70's in the other, Buggles' Video Killed The Radio Star seemed like the perfect choice. In the cold light of day it still turned out to be a cracking tune, and I think it would be great to hear the whole world singing it on my Birthday, while the stand on one leg and twist their eyebrows.

I think I talked about some other stuff I'd do or not do - oh and I'd make it law that I had the option to go first; at anything. Not everything, but just stuff I wanted to do before everyone else, like have the first cup of tea out of the pot, be first in line for the buffet. That kind of thing.

Then before you could say Harry Secombe, my world ruling was over and I was back down to earth with a bump when the taxi driver back into town wouldn't accept my hand drawn money. "It's probably worth more than a real fiver, " I told him, but he wasn't convinced and insisted on 'the real thing'.

Suddenly spiders don't look so bad...

Dancing men and frozen water

2009-01-06T19:02:00.002Z

Within hours of the news that Norris Winstone from Norwich, who at 95 is one of the oldest Morris dancing enthusiasts in England, had been given an MBE for his services to folk culture, we hear that the whole Morris dancing thing is set to go the way of Woolworths and Wedgewood.

The hankies will be out, not flicking merrily above heads, but wiping the tears from the faces of those who partake, watch or get stuck in traffic as a result of road closures due to performances.

Apparently the young people of today would rather do something less embarrassing with their spare time - like paint their faces, wear odd looking clothing and wonder around town... hang on a minute.

Anyway, Morris dancing is slowly dying and for once we can't blame global warming.

Future Radio
I've been asked to be a guest on Future Radio tomorrow (Wednesday) afternoon 2-3. Just a bit of chat, my plans to save the world and I get to pick a record. Should be fun.

Phish out of water
I've had this twice in the last couple of days to two different e-mail addresses:

"On On January 1, 2009 a large-scaled phishing attack started and has been still lasting. A great number of banks and credit unions is affected by this attack and quantity of illegal wire transfers has reached an extremely high level."

Apparently it's from The Federal Bank in America, who, with all their money, can't afford to employ people who can write proper like; "a large-scaled phishing attack started and has been still lasting" and "banks and credit unions is affected by this attack". Priceless.

Frozen solid
So, how do they get rid of all the ice from the rink outside The Forum now that it's closed and we're living in sub-zero temperatures?

I do like to be beside the seaside

2009-01-01T20:26:00.008Z

I can guarantee that back in the 70's I would have probably volunteered to wash up after Saturday night dinner, do all the ironing and even clean out the budgie's cage. Anything in fact so as to not watch Seaside Special on the TV.

Today, however, I have a strange urge to see one. Perhaps it's because I've been to Cromer "home of the world-famous Seaside Special," even though I can find no record of it ever being the location for the TV version which ran from 1975 until the last viewer died in 1979 - briefly returning in the 1980s until they suddenly remembered why they'd cancelled it in the first place - it was crap.

Anyway, I'm sure the Seaside Special at Cromer is a spectacular mix of music, comedy and dancing and given half a chance I intend on going in the summer (I've missed the Christmas Special) to wallow in whatever it is that keeps the thing going from year to year; I just hope for my sake that it's not Bernie Clifton, Showaddywaddy or Nana Mouskouri.

Santa, sadness and madness

While I'm on about Cromer, I spotted a couple of other things that sparked emotion in me. Firstly, a guy sat on the pier swigging from his can. He looked just like Santa and I couldn't help but wonder how many other Santas there are around the country 'resting' until they are needed again, probably in September.

Of course this guy may not have been a Santa, but he may well be one of the last people to use Cromer Pier. Over the past few years the British coastline has lost a good few piers through disrepair or fire. So, here's a great idea... let's set off a load of fireworks from the pier. Mark my words, it'll end in tears.

And I'm sure it's ended in tears at Woolworth's. I passed the one in Cromer today and apart from half a dozen staff, the place was empty of stock and fittings. A sorry sight and the end of another era, although perhaps the guys at the Seaside Special could give them some tips on turning nostalgia into profit and Cromer could be home to the world famous Woolworth's store - but please, no Bernie Clifton, Showaddywaddy or Nana Mouskouri cassettes; I've got them all.

A rose by any other name

2008-12-31T14:11:00.003Z

I don't have a TV in Norwich (I think I may have mentioned this before), but while back up Manchester way for Christmas I did catch a couple of things on the box. One of which was the advert for Norwich Union explaining that it is about to change its name to Aviva. The commercial stars Bruce Willis, Elle Macpherson, Ringo Starr, Alice Cooper and Dame Edna Everage all talking about how a change of name never did them any harm. But how is losing your world famous identity right in the middle of the credit crunch going to help?

Norfolk Blogger has already had a few words to say about this; "Norwich Union seems completely oblivious to the fact that its good name means something in the UK and wants to toss it aside like they have so many of their UK workers."

Another blogger suggested that new name will only confuse people - Aviva, isn't that the train people? Or some live culture you drink to help improve digestion? Or something Speedy Gonzalez used to say; twice?

Too early
I have a visitor who has spend most of her time sat in a window sewing and enjoying a perfect light from the beautiful Norwich skies.
This morning I spotted a Wren, tail erect, bobbing about outside doing Wren-like things. "Look, a Wren," I said. "Oh, how cute," came the reply. "Of course I wish I'd seen it tomorrow then I could have added it to my 2009 Bird List."

New Year

And so to 2009. It's my first New Year's Eve in Norwich and going by all the fireworks being advertised for sale in the shops around town, it's going to be a noisy start.

Keep safe, keep warm and keep all your wits about you for next year. I think we're going to need them.

Back

2008-12-29T19:38:00.003Z

Twelve days have elapsed since I last posted on Six Months In Norwich.

My excuse is that I've not been here in Norwich, even though, actually, for some of that time I have. Only the time I was here I was 'out of it' with what can only be described as near-death flu. Imagine all the colds and flu you've ever had all happening at the same time. Well that's how I felt on a good day.

I struggled round town on the 18th desperately looking for Christmas pressies, but gave up as I couldn't breath, hear or speak. So I took myself back to the flat for an afternoon and evening of self pity with Jack (for medicinal purposes).

The next day I somehow managed to drive the 180 miles home for a totally Norwich-free Christmas.

But today I'm back.

I struggled round town trying to get to into the office, but it was futile against the waves of shoppers who seemed to be happy just wandering around the streets rather than actually going into any of the shops to spend money. I've never seen so many people - and they all seemed to be where I wanted to be - especially at lunchtime.

Pulse was full and turning people away. They were queuing down the stairs at Captain America's. They were packed into the cafes in Jarrolds like sardines. Eventually managed to get a table at Auberge where I wrestled down a Club Sandwich and some fries and a Hot Chocolate.

Then it was back to the flat for an afternoon and evening with D, and a bottle of Poggerissi 2007. Perhaps we may even get a visit from Jack later.

Another reason...

2008-12-17T20:08:00.003Z

...for not having a TV set;

Phone call

Me: So, what you doing this evening?

She: Just relax.. ow! That has to hurt!

Me: What?

She: Pet Rescue. They've just put something very sharp up the back end of a tortoise and now they're all looking into it.

Me: Um, I really don't want to know this.

She: What lovely Wisteria...

Me: How did that get in there? No, actually, I don't want to know.

Fry’s Norwich Delight

2008-12-17T09:29:00.002Z

I knew someone would know. And I’m not surprised at all that it turned out to be Stephen Fry. The name for people who come from Norwich is Norvicensian.

Mr Fry revealed this little gem in an interview with some young ambassadors for Norwich who were heading to the Capital of Culture city, Liverpool, for a Portrait of a Nation event to show the rest of the country what it is that makes Norwich what it is.

As luck would have it, Stephen Fry was in Jarrold’s signing copies of his current book and had agreed to answer some questions about the city; a city, according to Fry, where you are “walking through history. It was an important medieval city for a long time. ‘Sodom, Gomorrah, London and Norwich,’ Ben Johnson once wrote.”

And when pressed for one word to describe Norwich, Fry opted for Anglocentric. “A mix of English and eccentric. It has a touch of eccentricity you should be proud of,” he told the listener.

I wouldn’t dare to put it any other way. He knows far more about the place than I ever will. In just a few words he’s captured Norwich’s essence.

“It’s small enough to know lots of people but big enough to avoid them if you don’t like them,” he says. I’ve yet to find out what’s not to like.

You can hear the full interview with Stephen Fry on the Future Radio website.

Letter writing

Two things sparked the urge to write someone a letter this week.

First, news of a death in the family; never the best of times for anyone and I felt that personal correspondence would be more fitting than just a card or even a colder e-mail.

The second reason for writing was the news that e-mails are slowly destroying the Royal Mail. So I decided to put pen to paper. I could take some time planning what I was going to say and the best way to say it – rather than just banging out a load of stuff and hitting the send button and instantly forget about it.

So I got myself comfortable, pulled up a chair, selected a nice writing pad and pen and wrote.

At first it felt strange and slightly nerve-racking; any mistakes would be seen. Major cock-ups would result in me having to start all over again. But with some effort and concentration I got through it. When I finally signed my name I read it and re-read it; and after I wrote out the envelope I read it again.

Then a little bonus; I had to stroll down to one of those red pillar boxes you see dotted around the place. I actually had the luxury of some time to walk and think about how it would be received and if there were others who would like to receive the occasional letter.

I strolled back home, popped on the kettle. Made myself a cup tea and then checked my e-mail to see if she’d replied.

Meh

2008-12-10T12:46:00.002Z

I was sat in Dragon Hall on Monday night listening to some poetry. At the end of one of the readings the stranger sat next to me turned and said, "meh."

Just meh. And right up until that moment I hadn't really fully understood the meaning of the word. But experiencing it at work in an environment where words were the most important thing, it became very clear.

I first became aware of the word during an exchange in Windows Messenger a couple of months ago and didn't really think that much of it. I actually though it was a typo until it was used again. I tried to use it back later in the exchange but got a strange reaction because I was obviously using it wrong.

And that happened again only last week on Facebook:
Fee: is meh
Richard: Poor thing
Rémy: Don't exagerate, Richard, she's just meh, not blah.
Fee: thanks guys, i'm now "heh"

Someone suggested that Collins had now included meh into its dictionary. So I downloaded the free online trial and typed in meh. "Do you mean me?"

I think meh is one of those words, and possibly the only one, that has to be said to be understood. Ideally by a stranger after some "neither good nor bad" poetry.

Puppet master
On the day the death of Oliver Postgate was reported, I was appointed to the Board of the Norwich Puppet Theatre. It's one of those moments of symmetry that makes life more heh than meh.

As a child I loved playing with my Pellum puppets, doing shows for the family and playing alone for hours with the theatre my father made for me.

I have no doubt that my interest was sparked by the puppets and animation I saw on the TV, such as Postgate's Pogles Wood, The Woodentops, Sooty and Sweep and Basil Brush.

I actually 'interviewed' Sooty a few years back and ended up being squirted with water from his 'mobile phone'; a memory to treasure forever.

I'm older, possibly a little wiser, but nonetheless excited at the prospect of having a new puppet theatre to play with - so long as they're happy for me to float SM Boy and SS Dutch Girl several inches above the stage to the song 'Would You Like To Fly In My Wonderful Balloon.'

Cafe Writers at Dragon Hall - Review

2008-12-08T22:49:00.001Z

George Szirtes
an oak in a field
of buttercups

Who uses the word marvelous these days?

2008-12-08T18:04:00.002Z

I came out of the Post Office in Castle Mall and spotted Hawkin's Bazaar and was tempted in by something fluffy spinning round on the floor trying to trip up less observant customers. I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just browsing.
"Are you looking for anything in particular today Sir?" inquired a small woman who could easily have been mistaken for something trying to trip up customers.
"I'm just browsing," I told her.
"Marvelous," she said.
I would have thought that with all those toys and games and other things to play with all day, a browsing customer would have been rather ordinary.

Use it or lose it
So I was in the Post Office in a very long queue wondering what impact the Irish Pork crisis might have on sausages. Really, it's the kind of thing I worry about all the time. Last week I lost half a night's sleep wondering if spiders stick to BluTack and if the back of all my posters were encrusted in rotting corpses.
Anyway, I was in the Post Office. And it was my turn.
"Could I have fifteen Christmas stamps please. First Class."
"Would you like Christmas ones?"
"Why? Do you do non-Christmas Christmas stamps?"
"You asked for Christmas ones didn't you. Sorry, I thought you'd said something else."
"What?"
"I've no idea. Ten was it?"
"Fifteen."
"Right."
Could anyone find a use for fifteen second class stamps?

A weekend of mistakes (and it's only Saturday)

2008-12-06T19:42:00.002Z

Let me make this clear from the start. Staying in Norwich this weekend was not a mistake. I love the place. However...

Mistake #1 - The weather
How stupid of me to think that a little picture depicting a blue sky with the sun peeping out from behind a couple of white clouds meant a fine day. And to give them their due, it was when I left the flat.

But, for all I know, as soon as I reached the city centre someone at the Met Office replaced the image with one of a tropical monsoon; lots of water and someone putting their right foot in a deep puddle.

Mistake #2 - Dragon Hall Medieval Market
Two pounds fifty to see stuff available in places other than Medieval Markets sold by people dressed up in Medieval costumes. Added bonus: see the monk get dressed in front of his customers.

Mistake #3 - Woolworths
What was I thinking. It was like stepping into a World War One battlefield. I'm sure people will actually write poems about their experiences. It was that busy people were queuing to breathe. It's all too painful to talk about right now.

Mistake #4 - Morrisons
Why did I buy so much stuff? Why didn't I take the car?

Mistake #5 -The Weather
"I think it's set for the day," I told the girl on the till in W H Smiths who was curious about my drowned rat costume. By the time I got home the sky was blue with the sun peeping out from behind some fluffy white clouds. Perfect for a stroll into town to do some shopping.

Lunchtime

2008-12-05T20:54:00.003Z

There's a group on Facebook called "I Secretly Want To Punch Slow Walking People In The Back Of The Head" (1,072,470 members).

There's also a great line in the US TV series Becker, starring Ted Danson, where he's following an old lady out of the diner. He says, "I've seen continents drift faster." I know how they all feel.

Lunchtime in Marzano's. I spot a group of five ladies drifting towards the counter. I have a choice. Liquid (hot chocolate) lunch with biscuit and no queue or select a sandwich and risk being stuck behind the Norwich Tardy Society.

The ladies stop to point at a very small child in a pram. There's much "oooing". I make a move for the pork with stuffing and apple sauce sandwich and a bag of hand fried Cheddar cheese and red onion crisps.

But I haven't noticed that one of the ladies has peeled away from the pack and is asking the young, unshaven man behind the counter about the soup of the day.

"It's spicy," she shouts to her coterie. They move. I move. But I've picked up the wrong crisps, an error that will haunt me all weekend. They're in and they have created a queue that I'm at the back of.

"Are you all together?"
"Yes."
Excellent, that'll speed things up, I think.
"But we're paying and ordering separately."

The bread on my sandwich starts to curl as each of the ladies ask the same questions about the soup, hot drinks, price, service, toilets, soup (again) and cutlery. There then starts a short, possibly carefully choreographed display of movement from the order area to the service counter as the ladies introduce chaos into a well oiled Marzano's routine of putting trays and order chits on the counter.

"But I wanted tea. There's no tea."
"We're making it now."
"And my coffee? Or did I go for the Hot Chocolate?"

My crisps have passed their sell by date as I reach the counter. The ladies have swarmed off looking for cutlery and somewhere to sit, but they've left Mary at the counter with not enough arms to manage her tray and shopping trolley.

A lady with a hint of pink rinse returns. "Come on Mary. Look, you're holding everyone up." The guy behind the counter, now with a full beard, says "No rush ladies..."

And I secretly want to punch him in the front of his head.

Third time lucky

2008-12-04T19:37:00.003Z

This is the third attempt to write this blog entry.

I started off writing about Norwich bloggers, but then I lost my way a bit and ended up saying something about horses.

Attempt number two was going to deal with people riding their bikes on pavements but somehow I got back to horses via dog muck.

So I'm going to try again. Only I'm all out of inspiration and full of 'Swedish style' meatballs, tomato sauce with sliced olives and spaghetti. I'm glad I forgot to do the garlic bread.

Apparently it was the official re-opening of the Norwich Tourist Information Centre in The Forum this evening. Sadly the information didn't get to me until it was too late. I could have made an effort I suppose and dashed into town, but the quick-cook spaghetti was already blooping away.

Post
One of the big pluses about being new to an area is that I get no junk mail. In fact I hardly get any mail at all. The most prolific poster is the local Green Party who have to walk past my paper recycle bin to deliver their newspaper. Fancy cutting out the middle man here?

TV
I've mentioned a couple of times that I don't have a TV in Norwich. (Another reason not to have one - BBC 1 - 8PM Panorama Special - Shannon: The Mother of All Lies).

I'm still waiting for a visit from the TV Licencing people. They wrote and told me that I didn't have a licence so I called them and told them I didn't have a TV.

So they wrote and said thank-you for telling us that you don't have a TV but rather than take your word for it we're going to send someone round and check as "... we visit people who have told us that they do not need a TV Licence, over a third of those we make contact with do, in fact, need one."

So I'll have a bit of company for a few minutes while they poke around for TV watching evidence - matchsticks by the sofa, excessive yawning, deep bum groove in chair and a bloody big TV plugged in - that kind of thing.

Horses
No! I'm not going to start again...

Snow joke

2008-12-02T19:01:00.002Z

I'm slowly beginning to understand those little weather symbols you see on websites. A little fluffy white cloud in a blue sky means sleet and heavy rain.

It was a glorious morning when I left the flat. I was even offered a lift but declined as the crisp December morning was just the ticket to brighten the spirits. An hour later it had clouded over and was trying desperately to snow.

Tomorrow's forecast is "Chance of rain". They may well as say "Chance of soup."

TV
Another good reason for not having a TV.
What are you doing?
"Watching Two Fat Ladies stuff a goose on UK Food."

Sunday
I've just discovered that it's the big Derby this Sunday. Norwich v Ipswich. So that's a quiet stroll into town out of the question then if the river of fans I walked into the other week when Swansea were here is anything to go by.

Cold?

2008-12-01T20:32:00.004Z

"Brrr, I think it's getting colder," I overheard a woman tell her friend outside Jerrold's as I walked past. I resisted the urge to say "Colder? Colder? I had to scrape ice from my car this morning in temperatures of minus four. The ends of my fingers were blue and for the first half hour of my 200 mile drive I could see my breath. Don't talk to me about getting colder..." But of course they weren't talking to me about it. So I kept my mouth shut.

But I did manage to tell my tale of sub-zero woe to someone else later in the day. "You're hard," they said and several hours later I'm still not fully clear what they actually meant by that.

St Andrew's - Patron saint of car parking...
I've never had to queue for a car park until today. When I arrived at St Andrew's Car Park ten cars were in front of me occupying three lanes. We all waited patiently and I got to wonder how the ticket machines would know which lane was next. Perhaps it has a sequence 1-2-3-1-2-3.

A car exited and I watched carefully. No one moved. Another car exited. No one moved. Another car exited. No one moved. Another car exited. No one moved. Another car exited and suddenly all three ticket machines spewed out a ticket and the race was on as the first cars in each lane were quickly joined by the next cars. All six heading off to find a parking space as the waiting game began again. A car exited. No one moved. Another car exited...

TV
"You don't have a TV in your flat do you?"
That's right.
"Why is that?"
Because I may be tempted to watch CSI or CSI Miami or NCSI and that way lies madness.
"Nuff said."

The Chocolate Show

2008-11-27T23:58:00.000Z

How have I managed to miss this? The Chocolate Show at St Andrews Norwich. That's a whole show dedicated to chocolate right here in Norwich. At St Andrews. And I'm missing out.

I only know about it because I passed St Andrews last night on my way to eat pizza. That's cheese and tomatoes and ham and pineapple; but no chocolate.

I spotted a sign on the side of St Andrews. It said "The Chocolate Show." The Chocolate Show opens on Friday while I'm at work or driving back north. The Chocolate Show is also open on Saturday and Sunday while I'm two hundred miles away.

Inside St Andrews lots and lots of chocolate. Outside, me. Never the twain shall meet.

If you're going I hope you enjoy it. Every last lip licking crumb. I may even watch Chocolat on DVD at home and raise a chunk of Galaxy to you all. But it won't stop me hating every last one of you.

Liverpool
Good luck to all those from Norwich who are heading to Liverpool this weekend to fly the flag for this fine city. I have to say that I have been totally blown away by the attitude and creativity of these youngsters.

The journey started five years ago when Norwich bid to be The Capital of Culture city - the title that eventually went to Liverpool. And to be honest - and perhaps slightly controversial - I'm glad Norwich didn't get it. Not that I think that it wouldn't be worthy of such an accolade, but because I think it would have spoilt what Norwich has here.

It's an unpretentious cauldron of creative diversity.

Had it won, the city would have been full of people writing sentences like that last one.

Melting, meeeelt-ing

2008-11-26T18:51:00.004Z

Slowly, since the weekend, the snowman on the corner of Kings Street and Stuart Road in Norwich has disappeared. All that remains today are his arms (twigs), nose (carrot) - actually I presume it was his nose, I didn't actually see him in all his glory (so to speak). Plus his eyes. Not pieces of coal, but, surprisingly in he current economic crisis, Babybel cheeses, now squashed under foot.

And as the last of the snow disappears, outside The Forum the water is hardening nicely ahead of the annual Christmas ice rink. I'm told it's popular with young and old, and I can see how this whole part of town - the market, City Hall, The Forum and the ice rink - creates a wonderful festive atmosphere.

Hot Chocolate - Part 2
As a postscript to yesterday's gush about hot chocolate, in the interest of fairness, I should say that hot chocolate is available in other places around the city. I haven't sampled them all (yet) but I did have a Starbucks' Signature Hot Chocolate.

Crammed with Belgian chocolate it wasn't too bad in terms of taste and thickness. Not as sweet as the ones at Marzanos, but finishing didn't leave me wanting more or feeling warm and snug; unlike the Marzanos. I guess it's more of a chocolate lover's hot chocolate, but still worth a try.

Norwich isn't all about food and drink, but boy, where it does do food and drink it does it well.

Things you must do in Norwich #1

2008-11-26T07:33:00.002Z

In Norwich, when everything around you seems to be falling apart, you can rely on one thing to help you focus, take a deep breath and realise that it's not as bad as all that.

I'm talking about hot chocolate. Especially a hot chocolate in Marzanos in The Forum.

It's not in same league as the ones you'll find in a chocolatería in Madrid, but it's thick and packed full of sweet chocolate flavour. They even offer you a huge dollop of cream, but resist. It's not needed. It's just an unnecessary barrier to keep you from the yummy chocolate beneath.

Find yourself a comfy sofa, sit back and sip slowly as all your cares, and the world, just drift on by.

Funny

2008-11-24T21:47:00.004Z

I wrote a great gag this evening. I was at Future Radio helping out with the guys who are heading to Liverpool at the weekend to represent Norwich at the Portrait of a Nation event that will mark the end Liverpool's Capital of Culture year.

One of the guys involved, he's called Dragon (I've no idea why), has been doing some research into the history of Norwich and has written a script for him and a mate to read out. I was asked to help give it some fine tuning and, working with Dragon, we decided to inject some humour and try and make the history live a little.

So (the gag is coming now, stand by), one of the bits Dragon had written for his mate says something like: "The mint in Norwich opened in 1695(ish), but eight years later it was closed." Now you're going to love the next line.

Dragon says: "So was that the original after eight mint?"

I thank you. I'll be here until March.

In other news, I'm going to have to put riders on my agreements to help out at events. Pringles, donuts, Twix fingers, Penguin bars and diet coke? Diet coke? What were they thinking. Diet coke. I'm living in a world gone mad. And to prove the point further...

We'd ordered a taxi to take us to Future Radio. So it turns up and the driver says that he's just come on duty and needs to get petrol. Poor chap, I mean the last thing he must have imagined he'd be doing this evening would be driving people around.

It's starting to look a lot like winter

2008-11-23T20:25:00.002Z

I'm back in Norwich this evening and it was so lovely to see that they'd laid a plush white carpet down for me. Only thing is, it's melting now.

But I'm sure it looked fantastic and people were frolicking in it and making angels and snowmen and singing "I'm Walking in the Air" in a high-pitched voice while trivia fans pointed out that Aled Jones didn't actually sing on the animated version. That was some other kid who no one remembers. But no doubt he still bores everyone with it in the pub while you're trying to eat roasted chestnuts, only his voice broke twenty years ago and now he sounds like a wasp in a jam jar.

I've pigged out on mince pies.

Horses for courses

2008-11-20T19:23:00.004Z

I've missed all the excitement of the switching on of the Christmas lights in Norwich this evening. I was on my way back from Newmarket where the lights were already on, even in daylight.

Newmarket is the home of the Jockey Club - there are horses everywhere, Tesco, Oxfam Bookshop, even in the public toilets. They need to do something about that.

It's also the home of the National Museum of Horseracing (are there local ones dotted around the country?)

Newmarket also has a variety of shops and a bloke who kept trying to get me to answer questions about soap. I politely told him I was from Norwich. "But you use soap, right?"

"Sorry, no time".

I passed him again a few minutes later. "Hey! You're the Norwich guy," he said flashing a card with pictures of bars of soap on it. "And you're the annoying little soap guy," I said in my head as I pretended not to hear him. "Do you use a bar or liquid soap?"

Give me Norwich any day where at least the Big Issue guys know how to take 'No' for an answer.

Yankee doodle

2008-11-19T23:54:00.000Z

There's a bit of a Beer Festival going on at the Kings Arms at the moment. I had a pint of Roosters Yankee. Light and refreshing. Perhaps more of a summer ale, but still, when someone else is buying...

Before that I was introduced to the beer, pork pies and live folk music in The Shed. Can't remember what beer I had - Amber something or other, but I do remember the pie and pickle.

Earlier still I popped along to a lively AGM at the Norwich Puppet Theatre. A new Board is forming and hopefully they'll quickly get to work on making sure that the theatre is financially secure to serve Norwich and the puppeteering world for many years to come.

And before all that a day of meetings set against a background of the Ice Rink being built in front of The Forum.

Five weeks to Christmas.

That's five.

Help.

Not from around here

2008-11-18T19:55:00.005Z

I heard a word today that I've not heard in a long while. Bugalugs.

Apparently its origins are Australian and is affectionately used on a minor. "G'day, John, you couldn't keep an eye on Bugalugs over here while I get something out of my car could you?"

Or was it Bugger lugs? Big ears. "Dude that supple boy has bugger-lugs!". Sometimes the Internet can be really unhelpful.

Anyway, I wonder if it's a common word round here. I have to say that I haven't yet come across words or phrases I've not heard before, but there must be some local lingo.

Accents too. I must sound a bit 'northern' to most, while to me everyone sounds like they've just stepped out of the Queen Vic in Eastenders. But then accents have never been my forte. I thought I was working with an 'Australian' guy for two years before someone kindly pointed out that he was, in fact, from Birmingham.

One thing that does leap out at me though is the friendliness of the people here. When you go into a shop in Manchester they have a philosophy of why use several words when one will do - hey, actually, why bother using any at all. In fact when a customer walks in, ignore them and phone your mates. Bloody customers, coming in here wanting to be served - you lookin' at me?

It's very different in Norwich. People have time. People seem genuinely interested. I bought something in a shop yesterday that, due to my complete inability to read the label, I had to return this morning. The woman behind the counter not only remembered me but apologised for not checking I'd bought the right one in the first place.

Back home you wouldn't dare return anything in case they punched you in the face for being so stupid. Actually that's not true; the chances of the shop still being there the next day are quite slim.

And the whole pace of life here is different. It feels like I'm living my life in slow motion. Half an hour of Norwich time is actually only ten minutes. People habitually turn up late. Meetings over run. Even ice takes longer to melt here, or am I just imagining that?

Cat food
I was half invited to a meal out last night. I'm glad I decided to stay at home and microwave something vegetable looking.

At the pub where they went to eat, a cat appeared during the main course and relieved itself in the corner of the dining room. Disturbingly prepared staff appeared to clean and disinfect the area in question.

Apparently it's become part of the whole eating experience in this establishment and the cat is a bit of a celebrity; a kind of feline version of Gordon Ramsey with a bladder problem. I really must make a note of where it is.

Forty-eight hours

2008-11-17T19:29:00.002Z

Daniel Craig. Captain America. A peacock feather. Croquetas De Pallo. Yarmouth Hippodrome. A dead blackbird. Fishing boats. Hot chocolate. Elm Hill. Mira Calix. Football fans. Time. Microwave oven. Three friendly dogs. Lots of windmills - old and new. KFC. BBC. Dresses with skulls. Sore feet. Light drizzle. Banana on cornflakes. Stardrops. Platform 3. Morrisons. Hardware. Software. Nightwear. Chill. Central heating. Kitchen taps. Chinese noodles. Broken chairs. Pirates Cove. Golden sand. Norwich Lanes. Mint imperials. Guardian crossword. Potty mouthed children. Gingerbread man. Buskers. Chestnuts. Expensive diamonds. Electronic music. Smiley hand stamps. Station kisses.

What a great weekend.

Thursday 13th November

2008-11-16T20:07:00.003Z

You really just have no idea what little surprises another day in Norwich brings.

I walked into the Forum this morning and nearly fell over a full size glider. I can only presume that it arrived in kit form as there's no way they could have got it through the glass doors.

I didn't go and chat with the people looking after it - they seemed more interested in setting up their virtual glider flying game. But I did wonder later if the game was a way to give the public a little taste of what real flying is like or if the real glider was there to help promote the flying game.

Roger not Brian
Being a father there are numerous opportunities to embarrass your children in public. Standing on stage at the Norwich Arts Centre in front of a hundred or so music fans isn't one I'd though of, but then I'm not Roger Eno (brother of Brian Eno).

So the shock of the story wasn't so much the story itself, but fact that he used to punchline for the name of a wonderful piece of piano music.

The story goes that Roger was busy composing the piece in February this year when the phone rang. It was his daughter's school. The teacher on the phone was none too pleased with the young Eno girl as he'd spent a great deal of time setting up a brand new computer system. The daughter in question was one of the first to be allowed to use it and promptly sent a message round saying "Kyle licks my bum hole."

About halfway through the tune Roger laughs - I presume marking the point where the phone rang.

But this was just one of may high points in this informal night of music and absentmindedness.

"Welcome to an evening of anti-entertainment," Roger announced before paying some wonderfully moving, challenging and sometimes amusing pieces on his Grand Piano. And not just the piano. "This is one of my old accordions. This side (with the keyboard) is Chinese, hence the extra buttons. This other side is German. And this black bit down the middle is the tape holding the two halves together. It's a bastard of an instrument."

His music is a joy as too his arrangements of other people's music. It's like being in a room with an old friend. And like all good concerts it seemed over too soon. "I'll do two more and if you don't drop off to sleep during the first one, you're already dead."

Wednesday 12th November

2008-11-16T20:02:00.002Z

I really had difficulty trying to remember what I did on Wednesday. And to illustrate the point here, word-for-word, is what I wrote in my journal:

Not a great deal to write about today. In fact the highlight - or should that be low light - is that the bulb in my desk light just went ping. Really, that's it.

Tuesday 11th November

2008-11-16T19:33:00.003Z

I was in sheer desperate need for some entertainment. I'm TV-less while in Norwich, there's wasn't much on the wireless and I was without the Internet. I had to do something. Anything.

Dragon Hall - Talk: The Wycliffe Bible with Clive Wilkins Jones.
Apparently they have one here in Norwich. In fact I know they do because I've seen it. It's in the Archive office at County Hall on display as part of an exhibition of something or other. I remember passing it a couple of weeks ago and someone told me what it was. But, to be honest, I didn't give it much more than a passing glance.

But now, thanks to Clive Wilkins Jones, I wished I'd paid more attention. The Bible in question dates from 1620 and despite the fact that in order to own a copy of a Wycliffe Bible you had to have a licence from the Bishop, about 150 copies have survived.

John Wycliffe wasn't a popular man with the church. His Bible was fine. It was his extreme views about the Eucharist that upset people. Fascinating stuff,but not as fascinating as some of the characters gathered to listen to Mr Wilkins Jones.

When I arrived I was met by the sight of two elderly gentlemen trying to get the laptop and projector to talk to each other. I found myself a good seat near the back where I could clearly see the screen displaying the message "No input found".

A guy in his 60s in the next row had his arms folded and was explaining to the woman sat next to him how to fix the problem as he works with this type of stuff all the time. "Don't tell me, tell them," she told him in a voice that suggested that they'd been here before. "Nah, they seem to know what they're doing. It's a F key they need to press but I can't remember if it's five or eight".

At this point the woman in front and to my left turned round to look at me. "Can you see through my husband?"

"I'm sorry," I reply, "I'm not that quick a judge of character." This seemed to amuse those around me - apart from the husband in question who moved his chair a little to the right and totally blocked my view just as a screen full of PowerPoint slides appeared.

"He doesn't want that view," the guy on the left helpfully announced.

A woman at the front stood up and just as the screen wient blank she declared that, "I think we're about ready to start."

But for me it already had.

Monday 10th November

2008-11-16T19:05:00.002Z

Back in Norwich after a couple of weeks in the warm sunshine of Florida where I was basking in the the excitement of the US Presidential Elections.

It was fascinating to watch it close up. I was there four years ago when Bush secured another term, but the mood and expectations were some much more intense this time round. Whenever Obama came on the TV in the hotel lobby or in a shop, a small crowd would gather to listen to what was being said.

So back to earth with a bump and straight back into loving Norwich.

There was a big posh do on in the Forum last evening (Sunday) - but all that was left of it on Monday morning were some helium filled balloons that had escaped to the ceiling. A blue one was slowly returning to earth hovering just above head height and I sat for a while watching people's reaction to it.

Most didn't notice it or simply chose to ignore, one man stood for a while looking at it carefully curious as to why its string wasn't quite touching the ground. The a young woman appeared and took hold of the balloon and tried to ground it, but it gently drifted back to head height and she smiled before catching the eye of a young child who'd also spotted it floating freely.

After a very short exchange of words the young woman handed to balloon to the child and they parted in opposite directions - the woman smiling, the child skipping is that way that five or six-year-olds do.

Door...Doh!
As I walked home though the Royal Arcade a slightly flustered man in a smart suit asked me for the exact time. "Well it's precisely six o'clock", I told him. "The buggers. They've closed early," he informed me as he rattled the door to Waterstones. I think I managed a little tut in way of support for his frustration as I walked on.

"No it's OK", he shouted after me, as if he really did think I cared. "My fault. I've been trying the wrong door for the last five minutes. They're still open."

Idiot.

It's been a little while

2008-11-16T15:18:00.002Z

For reasons well beyond my control I've not been able to update Six Months In Norwich since my return from holiday. But that can all change from now as over the next couple of days I'll be catching up and reproducing some of my written journal notes.

My dust is here

2008-10-21T08:06:00.004+01:00

I've long had an interest in puppets and puppetry. Ask my brothers, who were forced by my parents to settle down and watch my shows.

The matinee performances usually involved a couple of Pelham string puppets swinging across the stage - their feet never quiet touching the ground - and drapes that looked remarkably like the curtains we used to have in the lounge. There was little in the way of a story as for me it was all about the show.

So imagine how I felt last night when I stepped inside Norwich Puppet Theatre. It's a place where puppets are born and are given a life far more exciting than anything Geppetto had to offer.

Theatres up and down the country fill their foyers with pictures of past productions and actors. The Norwich Puppet Theatre fills its entrance with the actual stars of their shows. Puppets in every shape and form hanging from the ceiling and walls. It should be creepy, but it isn't. It's magical.

For 28 years they've been making puppets, putting on puppet shows and teaching the next generation of puppet masters in what was once St James' church.

Sadly it was my first visit to the theatre. For others it's been a part of their life for many years; from happy memories of watching shows to learning the craft of puppetry. One said, "I used to be Stage Manager here. I love it. My dust is here."

There was a time recently when it looked like all that would disappear, but those willing to pull the strings at the theatre don't have papier mâché heads.

The curtain has now fallen on the first act, but backstage there's a groundswell of people and ideas waiting for their cue. Please take your seats.

Holiday
It's time for me to pack my bags and head out of Norwich for a couple of weeks in the sun.

I always though that how I felt leaving Norwich at this point would be a good way to measure my overall impression of the place.

I'm really going to miss it.

There'll be none of your mallemaroking* here

2008-10-19T19:56:00.004+01:00

I'm starting to get to know the roads between Home #1 and Home #2 well. I look out for landmarks and things that make the journey a little more interesting as I endure the 175 mile drive from the High Peak of Derbyshire to the low lands of Norfolk.

I pass over a swing bridge and a railway crossing, neither of which have I seen in action yet. As I approach the level crossing I say a little "Train, Train, Train" prayer, in the hope that I have to stop for a few minutes and see something different.

I drive past endless fields of produce - flowers, cabbages, potatoes and sprouts; and I get stuck behind the many tractors moving between those fields.

I pass windmills in various states of repair. I must pass at least a dozen Little Chefs, an American Diner on the A1 and countless lay-by cafes and signs promising lay-by cafes, but failing to deliver.

One house I pass has the top part of an old telegraph pole stuck in the grass verge at the front; purpose unknown.

Inside the car the radio keeps me company and entertained; informed and educated.

This afternoon I listened to Robinson Crusoe and His Farther Adventures, the Classic Serial on BBC Radio 4. It's a long time since I've heard the Daniel Defoe story or, for that matter, watched the old black and white TV show in the 60 which was poorly dubbed into English.

I remember some elements; the footstep in the sand, his long white beard and companion Friday. I didn't remember that there was one other survivor with Robinson, the ship's dog called Gulliver.

This was followed by Mariella Frostrup and Open Book. A half hour programme about literature unsurprisingly. I learned some new words, thanks mainly to a piece about the guy who'd spent an entire year reading the Oxford English Dictionary.

Cachinnator - one who laughs loudly and immoderately
Apricity - the warmth from the winter sun
And one that seems to have got away. I think the word is Siderism and is the sound made by fallen autumn leaves rustling on the ground.

And right on cue the first strong winds of autumn blew a hundred rusty leaves across the road in front of me and before I knew it, I was back in Norwich again.

*Mallemaroking: carousing on icebound Greenland whaling ships

Norwich Castle Museum and Art Gallery - does what it says on the can

2008-10-16T18:04:00.006+01:00

There were only two things that disappointed me with Norwich Castle Museum and Art Gallery - the view and the art. And that's a bit of a problem when you go there to see the view and the art.

I'm not a museum type of guy. You can keep your artifacts, stuffed animals and bits of pot thank-you very much. I want to see some quality art and a magnificent view out over the city. The Modern Art Gallery was closed and there were no special exhibitions either, so I was stuck with a load of watercolours and seascapes - most of which are behind glass and almost un-viewable.

My only tinge of excitement was when I spotted an Edward Burne-Jones. The Annunciation. Not his best. Or his second best for that matter, although it could have been if he hadn't painted that bright light right in the middle of it; oh hang on, that's another reflection on the glass.

I'll save up my pennies (£5.80 to get in) and visit again when they modern art gallery and special exhibitions are open.

So I was rather hoping that the view from the top of the castle would make up for my visual disappointment in the galleries.

Appaerently it costs extra to go on the roof (Battlements) and into the basement (Dungeons), but I don't know how much it is or if the 'Tours' were on today as there was no mention of them when I exchanged my money for a sticky label that showed that I'd paid.

But it's not all negative. Walking into the Keep is like stepping onto a film set and a stark contrast to the bright walls of the galleries.

I found myself drawn towards the torture equipment and in particular to The Fiddle.

"The Fiddle was occasionally used on prisoners as a form of punishment."

The Keep had a limited number of windows, but those that were clean enough to see out of had very uninspiring views - loads of buildings and trees in the way.

The entire Anglo-Saxon army could have arrived in Norwich dressed in dayglow chain maille and would have been completely unseen behind the Castle Mall.

Five pound eighty? It's what my Father would have called 'a swizz', perhaps not quite that bad, more of a fiddle I'd say, in a slightly torturous way.

"Time wasting is not allowed"

2008-10-15T20:36:00.001+01:00

"Korfball is a sport played within a rectangular field of play indoors or outdoors. Teams of four female players and four male players try to shoot a ball into a korf (basket)." English Korfball Association

I tell you this because until four weeks ago I had never heard of Korfball. Until four weeks ago there were a lot of things I'd never heard of; Matlock Bath Illuminations, The Lidi Berlins, Captain America's Hamburger Heaven, people abandon squid in the street, to name a few. All of them, apart from Matlock Bath Illuminations, right here in Norwich.

Korfball isn't exclusively a Norfolk sport, it was invented by a Dutchman about 100 years ago, and is played in clubs up and down the country. So why haven't I heard of it before? What's the big secret? Is it down to the fact that it's one of only two sports I can think of (the other being mixed doubles tennis) where men and women play on the same team?

"Korfball basics

No running with the ball
No dribbling
No deliberate physical contact"

The first two seem logical enough, but the last one? Why else would you want to play with women?

"A penalty is awarded when an infringement prevents a scoring chance." No deliberate physical contact isn't going to help anyone's desire to score. Or have I got the wrong end of the stick again?

Anyway, I need to add it to my list of things to see while I'm here and still have friends.

Watching the digestives

Another pastime I appear to be developing while here in Norwich is watching people eat. I've not fully adjust to the Norfolkians - what is someone who comes from Norfolk called? Norfolkfolk, Norfoddian, Folkies - anyway, I'm not fully adjusted to their relaxed approach to meal times. So I end up stuffing my face around noon and then find myself in a meeting at 2pm over lunch, which I just sit and watch being packed away - obviously not playing by the Korfball rules; "Are you sure you've had your lunch?" Yes. "Well stop dribbling in mine."

Evenings are no better as I sit there trying to wash away the taste of slightly over-cooked Swiss Style Meatballs and slightly under-cooked hash browns with a glass of wine while everyone else tucks into delicious looking risottos, huge mushroom sandwiches or platters of cold meats, cheese and olives.

I had the same problem in Madrid last year, only there it's almost impossible to eat early as everywhere is closed. Then it's almost impossible to eat late as the cafes and restaurants are full of starving Spaniards. In fact they have a little joke over there. "What do you call someone eating tapas at 6pm? A foreigner."

Washing blues

I had very simple instructions on how to do my own washing while I was away from home. "Do everything on 40. Separate colours. Only use Vanish in the white wash and don't put softener in with the towels."

Two observations. Firstly, I put softener in with the towels. I like soft, fluffy towels. My blatant disregard for the rules doesn't appear to have caused any adverse effects, yet.

Secondly, I have a blue jumper type top with part of a t-shirt attached to it to fool everyone into thinking that I'm wearing layers and really trendy. My problem is that the t-shirt is white. How on earth do I wash them separately? I've already considered the obvious but I don't have any of those really small scissors in the shape of a bird for snipping stitches before you suggest it.

What a jerk

2008-10-14T22:26:00.002+01:00

“Did you know that Norwich was the first place outside of London to have a proper art gallery?”

It’s one of those pieces of trivia that somebody drops on you, out of the blue and you roll it around in your head for a few moments before saying something like, “No? Really?”

Then you start searching the empty corridors of your brain looking for something
a) intelligent
b) equally as astonishing or
c) witty, to say.

But you’re distracted by the bloke in the window opposite rubbing something frantically, out of sight, at waist level. And you begin to speculate in your head things that he may be doing and words that you mustn’t use in the current intellectual discussion.

Your safest bet is to keep your mouth shut, but the pressure is on. The ball is in your court and you have to say something. It’s your turn.

You need to speak right now or look like an ignorant imbecile. Go on say something. Now!

“Wank.”

That’s it; it’s all over. Get your coat…

“Yes, I thought that too, but apparently it’s true. The arts here are deep-rooted you know...blah…blah…blah…”

The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of

It’s odd that I find I’m having more vivid dreams since I stopped watching so much TV. I don’t see any in the week and just watch a couple of movies at the weekend.

Last night I dreamt about the popular singer Cary Simon. So far I haven’t been able to find any dream interpretation websites that can tell me what that means exactly.

What’s more she didn’t look anything like Cary Simon even though I knew it was definitely her; the beard didn’t fool anyone. And another thing, why would she be working at the Pirate’s Dinner place on International Drive in Orlando while moonlighting at the Post Office in Castle Mall, Norwich.

Friday on my mind

2008-10-14T07:49:00.003+01:00

Overnight success is never really that instant is it? Comedians work for years 'doing the clubs' while actors slave away in rep or McDonald's waiting for that 'big break'. The same is true with music. It's a long hard slog until you get noticed, honed and turfed out onto an eager public. Admittedly things are a little easier today with websites like You Tube and My Space offering opportunities for cheap promotion and loyal fan following.

The BBC has been promoting new and and unsigned all over the country with the Introducing programmes on local radio.

Last Friday I popped along to BBC Radio Norfolk's Introducing night at the Norwich Arts Centre to see three local bands - The Lidi Berlins, The Great Shakes and The Lost Levels.

The Lost Levels
I've already mentioned The Lost Levels on here when I was raving about one of their videos and tracks The Early Sheets. These guys are great musicians and managed to reproduce catchy arcade computer game music inspired song note for note, harmony for harmony, spacey Pink Floydness for spacey Pink Floydness. I loved it, the crowd loved it and The Lost Levels looked like they were enjoying it too.

I'm told that they'd rather be doing the more serious experimental electronic stuff that made up most of their set. And why not? They have a great sound and, true, the audience didn't react the same to more thoughtful tunes, but perhaps, like me, they were just happy to be washed away with the music.

This was my second encounter on Friday with The Lost Level's keyboard and vocalist Chris Cooper. In the orning he was at St Andews Hall playing it's rather grand organ for the start of the Norwich ID Unconvention where younger people from Norwich had the chance to discover how they and other see the city. More here.

One thing. I'd love to see them introduce a female voice into the mix - not Great Gig In The Sky type vocals, but something a bit more Tina Dico/Zero 7ish.

Before the main course we were given two rather excellent, if slightly less polished, performances from The Lidi Berlins and The Great Shakes.

The Great Shakes
It's never a good idea to warm the crowd up with a crafted video and studio mix of one of your songs unless you have the confidence and talent to step on stage and continue the sound for the entire set. This was The Great Shakes' downfall for me and it took them a little while to get up to speed vocally. A band to look out for as their enthusiasm is infectious and their following is loyal.

The Lidi Berlins
The Lidi Berlins opened the show and I have to admit that I arrived slightly later to see their complete set. My loss. I loved their heady drum, bass and rhythm and really set the standard for the night. Another band to keep an eye on and certainly worth checking out again.

Since Friday I've read elsewhere that the BBC Introducing event this was part of John Peel Day but I don't remember hearing that mentioned. He'd have loved the music.

Back

2008-10-13T23:16:00.002+01:00

Yes I'm back in Norwich and no I haven't updated the blog since Thursday.

I'll do it tomorrow when I'll tell you all about the Norwich ID Unconventionl and the BBC Introducing event last Friday at the Norwich Arts Centre.

Let me tell you, it's worth waiting for.

Sandringham Court

2008-10-09T18:37:00.003+01:00

The diversity of the architecture in Norwich is wonderful. There are buildings here that are several hundred years old right next door to new developments - and somehow it all works.

It's like a patchwork quilt of brick and wood and slate and wattle and daub.

One minute you're passing rows and rows of post-war semis, a 70’s monument of concrete and glass and then you turn a corner and see something like this, Sandringham Court, on Ipswich Road. In the sunshine it's breathtaking and I suspect that even on the dullest, wettest of days, the red bricks shine.

Tonight I’m off out for a meal in the arty part of town, St Benedicts Street, where there’s a music shop selling a Hello Kitty pink guitar and a second hand bookshop yet to be explored.

I’m meeting up with some people I’ll be working with tomorrow, but hopefully the business side of things will quickly dissolve into a plate of soup or better still, a glass of wine. No too much mind as I have an eight o’clock meeting in the morning which I’m already regretting suggesting.

Bins update

A new black wheelie bin has arrived along with a letter asking me to look after it. It’s like it’s been abandoned on my step by its mother who just can’t cope anymore with the though of fortnightly collections and what with the credit crunch and all that.

I have a simple solution to all this economic turmoil; put the boss of the Poundstretcher stores in charge.

Today Norwich, tonight Japan, tomorrow... Norwich.

2008-10-08T16:10:00.005+01:00

Tonight the good folk of Japan will clear the noodles and sushi from their plates, wash away the dishes and settle down to watch their main news programme on the TV. And what will they see? They'll see me in Norwich talking about depression.

It was all to do with the The Living Library, an idea running as part of Mental Health Week. The way it works is that rather than take out a book to read you borrow a real person who has an interesting story to tell. Then you get to chat with them for half an hour and, unlike books, you ask them questions or get them to explain something you're not quite sure about.

Being there when the library opened I had the pick of the 'books' and chose 'Depression'. The librarian nipped behind a screen and returned with Sonia, a quiet, slightly nervous looking middle-aged woman. "What happens now?" I asked. "Let me tell you my story."

Sonia then went into a detailed account of how she was once a teacher, how she was befriended by another teacher who, it turned out, was a paedophile grooming her to get to her daughter. I felt slightly uncomfortable. Within minutes of meeting Sonia here she was telling me extremely personal information about her life and how the stress of what had happened led her into a depression that kept her in bed for seven months.

Part of what The Living Library is doing is to help quash people's preconceptions and prejudices about others. Sonia's story was fascinating and compelling to listen to. I learned how she'd been admitted to a psychiatric hospital and how she slowly began to cope with what she'd been through. And how, as she started to get her confidence back she became the target of someone nearby who misinterpreted her condition for something else.

Sonia was in her bedroom looking out of the window when she saw a young child playing on a wall. Still in her pyjamas, she leaded out of her window and called to them to get down, in fear that they may fall. It triggered a campaign of hatred by the child's parent who, ironically, accused Sonia of being a paedophile. Abuse and bricks were thrown at Sonia who relapsed into her depression setting her recovery back six months.

It wasn't easy for Sonia to come along today and be a living book, but she felt that it was important to tell her story and to help dispel some of the myths around people who suffer with depression. "I wanted to give something back as I've been helped by many. It's not easy for me, but my carer is sat over there keeping an eye on me."

"What makes you happy?" I asked Sonia.

"My grandchildren. I live for them."

And then our time was up and before I knew what hit me a Japanese film crew had a camera in my face wanting to know how it had gone and why I'd picked depression and had I ever been to a living library before and, and, and... Apparently there are plans to do something similar in Japan and they were keen to see it in practice. I answered as best I could.

When I'd finished I looked round to say goodbye to Sonia, but she'd already been borrowed by another reader who looked like the type of person who turns down the corner of pages in their books.

Bird of the day

2008-10-07T18:00:00.005+01:00

King Street, Norwich. A dead bird on the pavement. Last week it was a dead squid. Am I missing something here?

A bit further back on King Street, where the old mill once stood, they've boarded up the site and placed blue plastic sheets along the pavement.

It makes for some interesting photography opportunities but little else. I suppose it'll deter the graffiti artists but perhaps not the bill posters unless it's magic plastic that rejects glue.

There's a bit of a blue thing going on in the public toilets on the market too. The light in the Gents is very blue. So blue in fact that when you come outside it's like stepping into a sepia film until your brain readjusts the colour balance.

Speed kills

I'm still getting used to the pace of Norwich. I was in WH Smiths trying to buy a paper and got stuck behind people who were just browsing and generally drifting along like a continent. I turned to pass comment on the the whole slowness of life here to the chap next to me only to notice that he was reading a magazine and was rooted firmly to the spot and looked like he had been for some considerable time.

Yesterday I nipped into a supermarket and the guy on the till didn't once look up from a magazine he was reading while scanning my shopping. The only words that came out of his mouth were "bag?" and "do your pin number." I offered some of my own, "can I have twenty pounds cash back please?"

And his reply? "Too late."

A Recipe For Disaster

2008-10-06T19:27:00.004+01:00

The story goes that a young Princess Victoria visited Matlock Bath in Derbyshire. Many years later, to mark her Diamond Jubilee in 1897, she returned bringing with her childhood memories of the flickering lights of the town reflecting in the River Derwent. Not ones to miss out on an excuse for a party or two, the Matlock Baths Illuminations were born along with a parade of boats on the river.

A hundred and eleven years later, the old Queen may have gone, but the illuminations live on whatever the weather. "Thank-you for braving the wind and rain this evening ladies and gentlemen. Because of this the boat lit entirely by candles will not be taking part in the parade tonight."

The MC on the bandstand sounded like a man who'd seen it all before and he wasn't going to be phased by the atrocious October night. "Because the river has risen so much today, the younger rowers are letting the more experienced ones look after things."

It all passed without incident apart the hole in my shoe that, to be honest, I couldn't really blame them for. The Illuminations run on Saturday and Sunday evenings until the end of October with fireworks on some nights - now that's just asking for trouble.

I'm not sure of Queen Victoria ever came to Norwich - hang on... yep she did in 1869. Apparently she also wore her knickers in Sandringham, which gave rise to NORWICH being the acronym for "'Nickers off ready when I come home" - anyway, I'm back now after a couple of days at home in Derbyshire where I also found time to visit Chatsworth House, well the gardens at least where Southerby's are holding their annual sculpture exhibition, Beyond Limits.

Quotes of the day

Heard some crackers this morning on the way back to Norwich. The first two were on the BBC Radio Norfolk's breakfast show.

"I still do a bit of midwifery. I like to keep my hand in."

"You can't take egg boxes or empty loo roll middles into school anymore because of the risk of salmonella or someone not washing their hands."

Then there's this one from one of the BBC Blogs that's talking about citizen journalism. nicemandan had commented with this observation about the news hungry channels like CNN, Sky News and BBC News who run with a story before all the facts are clear; "Breaking news is like breaking wind, it's usually badly timed and it stinks."

The final one is from Ella Fitzgerald who was quoted in the opening speech on the return of Jazz FM. "Maybe I don't have the words, but I'll sing it and maybe you'll understand."

*There should have been pictures to go with today's posting but my Photoshop doesn't want to play tonight. There's some on my Flickr account though.

Meet and greet

2008-10-02T22:19:00.002+01:00

Boy do they know how to do meetings in Norwich.

I was at the first at 09.30 and left the last one at 21.45. I don't think I've done so much listening and talking in all my life. The first one was mainly talking, the second mainly listening and the third was a mix of both with some wine.

And the great thing about having meetings in Norwich is that you need never have them in the same place twice.

For the first I was in the Theatre Royal, the second was in The Crypt and the last one was in the Unthank Arms; three venues with absolutely nothing in common (other than being in Norwich) but all worthy of our patronage.

The quote of the day came from the last meeting and, for comic effect, I've paraphrased it slightly (if you can do it slightly); "I'm not a Christian, and I think that, there but the grace of God go I."

There was a great quote from this morning's meeting too, but it's written in my note book which is over there somewhere, in my jacket and my legs are tired and I think I saw a spider and anyway it wasn't as good as the God one.

Of course on the down side of all these meetings is the fact that I've not had a great deal of time to find out more about Norwich, other than the Puppet Theatre, which I'm certain I'll be writing about in detail soon. The other downer is that I now have a load of notes to decipher and a couple of reports to write up, oh, and a meeting at 09.30 - and so it goes on.

It's a good job I enjoy this kind of thing.

History spot

Just remembered that between meeting one and meeting two I popped into the old skating rink. What a fantastic building that is. Now used as a show room for some rather expensive furniture, the actual building itself is a joy to look at from the inside.

In its heyday it would be packed with Victorian families roller skating - they couldn't make the ice in those days. Sadly it's popularity was short-lived and it became a warehouse for a builders merchants before being restored and turned into a place that makes Habitat look like MFI.

Getting about a bit

2008-10-01T18:35:00.001+01:00

I try to adjust my walk to and from work each day so that I can see new things and avoid the Flag of the Day.

Today I diverted down Ice House Lane (I think). That took me onto Carrow Hill where I passed a blue plaque that commemorated the death of three mustard workers in the Second World War. They were killed by a German Bomb and thus became the first victims of the war in this part of the country.

Did Coleman's have anything to do with mustard gas during the war?

Borderline

There's little else to report today other than following on from my newsletter from the Green Party, I had some leaflets pushed through the door explaining about Alternate Weekly Collections. I've been doing this back home for a couple of years now, but it is interesting (look it's been a quiet day OK?) to see the different ways councils approach this controversial issue.

Where I'm from it's general waste one week followed by glass, newspapers, tins , cardboard and limited garden waste the next. Here in Norwich they're taking plastic bottles as well, but not garden waste unless you cough up £35 a year.

The only thing they don’t tell us is when it starts. There's a map, but I'm on the cusp of Stage Two - Summer 2008 and Stage Four - TBC. What I might have to do is nip into the village and ask around. Not sure who'd know.

Perhaps I'll start with the landlord of the pub. He could also help me with another little problem I have. Thirst.

Fish of the day

2008-09-30T19:40:00.005+01:00

Now here's something you don't see every day in Norwich, or elsewhere for that matter.

Imagine the scene; you're walking along the pavement dodging pedestrians, buggies and bikes, minding your own business, when suddenly you spot a squid on the pavement.

Hundreds of questions seep into your head. How? Why? Is it dead? Is it cooked? Is it pickled? Where can I get a sandwich?

So there it was, legs akimbo, all of them. No one else seemed that bothered. Walking past the dead cephalopod without so much as a second glance. Actually, I'm presuming it was dead. More questions. Let's assume that it was alive (but not kicking). What are you meant to do? Where would you take it? Where can I get a sandwich?

A chip off the old block

"Norwich's recycling rate has increased from around 20% of household waste collected around the city a year ago to around 35% at present." I'm quoting directly from the The Norwich Green - the newsletter of the Norwich Green Party (Thorpe Hamlet Edition) that was popped through my front door (actually my bedroom) last night.

I didn't know that the Greens had a councillor, but I do now. I even know what he looks like as the newsletter (printed on recycled paper) has three pictures of him. A general one where he's smiling. A more serious one outside the soon to close Rosary Lane Post Office and an official looking one on Mousehold Street which is about to have a 20mph speed limit imposed on it.

But the thing that really caught my eye was the advert for Logs. "Well seasoned local hardwood. From £35 per load. By-product of local tree surgeon's work." Sounds like the tree surgeon is a busy man in these parts.

Coals to Newcastle

I must say that I'm really taken with the standard of charity shops in Norwich. They all seem well managed and used. The one that's most impressed me though is the Salvation Army shop. The furniture in there is amazing both in terms of quality and price. Of course, I only go in to look at the books, but while I was in there yesterday a guy from China was getting all excited about a fancy tea-pot they were selling. "Can you wrap it well? I need to take it back home with me. I love it, we don't have anything like that in China."

And talking of tea, I nipped into Wilkinson's for a tea strainer. What a fabulous tea shop. The shelves behind the counter are stacked high with tea chests and caddies. I couldn't resist buying some white tea. It's called Pai Mu Tan and doesn't come cheap. I opted for a modest 50g worth that I can pay for in monthly installments. It's delicious. No milk or sugar required. It doesn't even need boiling water (it scorches it apparently). It has a refreshingly light grassy taste and is full of antisomethingsorother, so it's bordering on a health food.

I knew coming to Norwich was going to be an education.

Today’s flag…

2008-09-29T18:38:00.002+01:00

There’s a house, well I think it’s a house, on Bracondale that has a Flag of the Day. Today’s is Saint Michael and All Angles and the actual flag is the St. George’s Cross.

There isn’t always a flag which suggests that some days are not flag days, or the person that puts the flag up hasn’t got a flag for that day, has forgotten to do it or just can’t be bothered. I did consider walking that way into Norwich each morning and taking a picture of the flag to feature on the blog but if I miss a day I’d never forgive myself. So from now on I’ll walk along Kings Street and save myself the worry.

Catch up

A couple of things left over from last week that I didn’t mention.

Walking home late on Thursday I was deep in conversation with someone about the history of various buildings that we passed – The Dragon Hall, various mills, a lane leading to somewhere where someone lived who had something to do with a book, that kind of thing. Suddenly I heard young women screaming and being generally excited about something.

Turns out it was Kill Hannah or one of their supporting bands, My Passion and Serpico who were just boarding their tour bus after a concert at The Waterfront. I presume they’re popular with the studenty types round here.

The other thing I forgot to mention last week was that I bought an old book from the Book Man. It’s called “Evening Parties For Children And Grown-Ups And How To Make Them Enjoyable.” It’s by Mrs. Lawson Harkness and comprises of “Description of Merry Games, Hints on Catering, Management of Guests and Practical Party-Giving Instructions.”

Let’s have a random look shall we?

Page 5 – “As the guests arrive they should be introduced to each other by their Christian names. Suppose it is ‘Annie’ that has arrived, say, ‘This is Annie; now who is it?” and make the others repeat the name. Suppose there be two of the same name, then it would be ‘Annie with the blue sash,’ or some other distinguishing article of apparel.

Page 30 – “Show Four Bare Legs Up The Chimney. This sounds, at first, rather startling, but all that is necessary is to pick up a chair and show the four legs up the chimney.”

Page 33 – “For a party of grown-ups, as with a party for young ones, it is essential that ‘the ice’ should be broken as speedily as may be, and an anxious hostess will welcome any hint that will help to bring about a ‘sudden thaw.’ The ladies (sorry ladies, but it’s generally a true bill) are usually most difficult to deal with. Gentlemen, from custom, or business contact, are soon ‘Hail fellow, well met,’ and give little or no trouble. Ladies on the contrary, are not so confiding. They not infrequently eye each other with a certain aloofness…”

Fantastic.

Just the ticket

2008-09-25T23:44:00.000+01:00

Yesterday it was bookshops, today it was; another bookshop and some tea shops. I do like my tea and having read an article in The Guardian about the lovely leaf, I went in search of Norwich’s finest.

I found two on the Internet, but only managed to visit one as The Bookman on Pottergate distracted me. More on that story shortly.

So, tea. The two shops listed are Wilkinsons of Norwich and the Tea Junction. I’d not heard of either so by some process in my head that involved me linking the names to other things with similar names (Wilkinson’s chain of shops that sell everything and The Late Junction on Radio 3), I decided to go to Level 2 in the Castle Mall and sample the delights of the Tea Junction.

It didn’t disappoint. Outside were a few tables where a weary shopper can enjoy a pick-me-up. Inside, shelves and shelves of tea and tea related items. As I was looking at the selection of Black and Green teas and various flavoured ones, an elderly lady came in. She’d just parked her friend outside at one of the tables. “Could I have a coffee please? And do you do tea?”

Yes m'lady
The Bookman is a fascinating second hand bookshop. It’s very tidy with some kind of order to it, but with hidden treasures to be found on every shelf.

My prize find wasn’t a book. It was the calling card of a Mr Thomas Nelson Perkins. I know no more about the gentleman, as that is all the information the card contains. I like to imagine that at some point in time it was handed over to a butler who then placed it on a silver plate and presented it to the master or mistress of the house. “Thank-you Alfred. Take Mr Perkins to the Drawing Room and bring us some afternoon tea. Best butter, I may wish to do business with him. And shove his card over there in that pile of stuff to go to Bookman.”

I also picked up a ticket for the Thorpe Occasional Players production of Murder Mistaken by Janet Green at the Village Hall in Thorpe. I’ll not be going, or should I say, I didn’t go. It was on Thursday November 4th 1954. I’m not exactly sure where Thorpe is or what the Occasional Players do, or did, when they weren’t playing.

I showed the ticket to my friend Marion, a one-time graphic designer, who proceeded to tell me about the fonts on the tickets. She said things like “Gill Sans” and “Serif” and other words that sounded like the ones she’d just used but probably were subtly different and only recognisable to a fontologist or whatever they may be called. Anyway, as far as my untrained eye was concerned, I found the ticket pleasing and regardless of the fifty-four years that have passed, still capable of sparking some excitement with the purchaser.

A murder is announced

2008-09-24T18:02:00.003+01:00

I have a thing about second hand bookshops. Basically I can’t keep out of them, although up until today, I had manage to resist the call of the couple I’ve seen in Norwich.

But, as you may have guessed, that all came to an end today when I ventured into The Dormouse Bookshop on Elm Hill. I was looking for an Agatha Christie for my daughter and not just any old Agatha Christie; it had to be a Hercule Poirot.

You have to savour the first visit into a second hand bookshop you’ve not been in before. Take in the window display and peruse any books that may be outside. Then step in, take a deep breath in through your nose and relax.

Choose a direction to go in and begin to discover the treasures that wait you. Look round every corner, check out piles of books on the floor or placed up high. Miss out one shelf and you’ll miss out on something wondrously thrilling.

I tend to start in the travel section in search of The Silent Traveller series of books by Chiang Yee to add to my collection. The I’ll go and admire the covers of some of the classic Penguin Books. Then I listen to the pages of old books and feel the spines of old leather bound editions of books that were probably purchased a hundred years ago or more, not to be read, but to fill the gaps on the shelves of the gentry.

Some shops are meticulously laid out; library fashion, some are just a jumble of books and some fall between the two; there’s a basic logic to the way the books are arranged, but with little eccentric bits thrown in that means you’re never quite sure what you’ll pick up next.

Behind the counter a quiet voice greeted me; I had awoken the dormouse himself.

No matter how well laid out the shop may be, no matter how glorious the smell and the feel of the place, the final judgement must rest in the hands of the merchant. Too pushy and over helpful is bad. Poor knowledge of their stock is even worse. I prefer the kind that doesn’t speak unless spoken to. I like to browse quietly and The Dormouse seems to fit the bill perfectly.

While I was in there a man came with some books to sell. The dormouse was polite and honest about what he could buy and sell, suggesting where else to offer the two books he wasn’t going to purchase today.

Finally, after many distractions and almost irresistible urges to spend, spend, spend, I happened upon some Agatha Christie; and not just any old Hercule Poitrot, but A Murder Is Announced, Poirot’s début.

I balanced the dormouse’s books by paying what he’d just spent on some new stock and stepped back out into the fresh autumn air – not unlike the smell of damp books.

I’ll resist the urge to look at who the murderer is, and ponder the real mystery of the day; who stole forty minutes from me while I nipped into The Dormouse Bookshop?

“If you do see anyone famous please do not start jumping up and down.”

2008-09-23T20:54:00.002+01:00

I’ve seen very little of Norwich today, although I did get excited when I spotted my chimney from the train as it pulled out of the station at 06.40; the train that is, not the chimney.

Spent the best part of the morning on a tour of the BBC TV Centre in Wood Lane, London. It’s such an iconic building and, I discovered today, is just a couple months younger than me. It’s starting to show it’s age (aren't we all) and with plans well under way for the BBC to move out, I hope I outlive it by many, many years.

All those on the tour are fully briefed as to what the building is all about. Basically it’s a place where thousands of people work and a constant flow of over excited people pointing and prodding staff and celebrities would be really unhelpful, so stay in a single line and keep your hands inside your own space at all times.

I can’t recommend the tour enough and I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment by spilling the beans on what you get to see, but take it from me and Alan Titchmarsh (who we saw rehearsing his ITV daytime programme – yes I know, they make it at the BBC) and Jonathan Ross, who walked past me in a corridor and that bloke from the news, you know the one, with the hair, this should be on your must see things to do when you’re in London next.

After a spot of lunch it was over to the BFI on Southbank to have a nosey at their Multimedia Gallery. Currently on show in there is a piece by Pierre Bismuth and Michel Gondry – The All-Seeing Eye (The Hardcore Techno Version).

Imagine sitting on cushions in the middle of a square, pure-white room. Above your head is a projector on a rotary arm, gently sweeping a film around the plain walls. We hear voices from a TV set that comes into view on each sweep past as other items in the room change. It “shows subtraction as the metaphor for a world without communication and relationships: a room is stripped bare, the not immediately apparent visual…” Who writes this bollocks?

I actually liked the installation and would have been happy to sit there a lot longer, but I accept that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea and I’m sure my companions were not the only ones to be inspired to discuss the unanswerable question of ‘what is art?’

Then it was back to Norwich on the National Express train, which brought to mind that classic line from the Divine Comedy song – “Mini-skirts were in style when she danced down the aisle; Back in 63; But its hard to get by when your arse is the size; Of a small country; And everybody sings ba ba ba da...”
(Fades into a glass of chilled wine)

Any old iron

2008-09-22T20:27:00.002+01:00

One of the lessons I learnt from holidaying in Spain last October was that you should never assume that hotels all over the world offer the same standard of service. The hotel I stayed in didn’t have an iron in the room or a trouser press and the hotel couldn't even loan me one.

So it was either suffering ten days of creases in a place where no one knew me and frankly wouldn’t care if I was unkempt, or fork out a fortune for an iron. It cost twenty Euros.

Last night, many miles from the back street of Madrid where it was bought, the iron went ‘ping’ when I plugged it in.

I suppose that I should be grateful that it was the only victim of my temporary move to Norwich. Everything else survived the journey and I’m now settled into my weekday home.

It’s very nice and will fit my needs perfectly. My landlord is a carpenter and has promised that the sofa bed is just to get me through the first few days until he manages to buy a bed – “or I could just knock together a frame,” he said wandering away, rubbing his chin.

Of course he may not have time to make the bed as he’s spending most of his time nursing a stray hedgehog. “It’s covered in tics.”
“Poor thing. Where is it?”
“In that basket by your back door. I think one of the tics have already dropped off.”
“Dropped off where exactly?”

More Norwich colour
In all the excitement of going home for the weekend I didn’t have time to blog about the old woman I saw on Friday morning.

She was smartly dressed and was bent over a yellow delivery trolley that had been left lying across the pavement. “Can I help you with that?” I asked politely. She stepped to one side, still stooped by age and stretched out a long pointy finger. “The lazy f***ers can’t be arsed to pick their own stuff up anymore.”

Musical treat
I’ve added to my list of things to see while in Norwich a band called Lost Level.

Big influences from Yes and Pink Floyd, but with a refreshing sense of adventure. Take a listen to The Early Sheets.

The video that goes with it is fantastic and I apologise now; you will have the tune in your head all week.

Small talk

2008-09-17T23:29:00.004+01:00

“This is Alfie.”
“Hi Alfie. So, what’s it all about?”
“Yes. I get that a lot.”

On the piste

“I passed the Britvic factory today.”
”Yes. That’s where they make Coleman’s Mustard.”
”Really? Gosh. I didn’t know that. And what’s that strange thing on the hill behind the factory?”
”That’s the artificial ski-slope.”
Norwich never ceases to surprise me.

Moving
“So when do you move into your flat?”
“Sunday.”
“Fantastic. Do you need a hand?”
”I should be fine thanks. I’ll only have some bedding and some clothes. Oh, and I might bring some bottles of wine.”
“What time should I come and help then?”

Snitch

“What are you like at keeping a secret?”
”Terrible. Don’t tell me anything you don’t want others to know. Just looking at me straight in the eye is enough to make me spill the beans… There are chocolate biscuits in the tin.”

Tonight

“So what have you got planned for this evening?”
”Nothing really. Back to my hotel room. Finish the Guardian crossword, search through the listings for something mildly interesting on the radio or mind numbing on the TV and if there’s nothing I’ll probably read for a while on the bed and drop off to sleep about ten.”
“Well I can’t top that. See you tomorrow.”
“Of course that coach load of trainee models staying at the hotel said they might give me a knock, so long as I had a friend I could bring with me to help them sort out their swimsuits.”
“That’s lovely. You’ll find five across is Grand Prix.”

Mad dog and Englishmen go out in the Norwich night

2008-09-17T23:29:00.002+01:00

I’ve been drinking wine. White wine. And eating meat. Red meat. I made the mistake of asking someone: “Where’s a good place to eat in Norwich?”

Among the long list of places, one name stood out. Captain America's. Basically it’s a beefburger restaurant that serves the finest beef burgers I’ve had since The Great American Disaster in Chester about nineteen years ago.

While witnessing the excitement of watching two blokes leave without paying, I was messaged an invitation to go and see some ‘cabaret’ at The Birdcage with a couple of new Norwich friends.

We were to meet up first at Frank’s Bar in Bedford Street where the wine flowed and I managed to avoid sharing the bread and olives and raw courgette salad. A Captain America beefburger is enough for one man to manage on a Wednesday night.

Then on to The Birdcage where we’d missed the first half of ‘Cabaret hosted by Lora Stimson’. Sadly we’d not missed the second half, but I managed to slip away fairly un-noticed.

I think the lack of excitement by what the Birdcage had to offer tonight was down to the fact that earlier in the day I’d met Rick Wakeman. I’d thought about apologising for holding up his game of golf while I searched for my lost balls a few years back at the Norman Wisdom Charity Golf event in Cheshire, but to be honest I didn’t want to get into a discussion about what I play off or plus fours with the King Arthur of electronic keyboards thank you very much.

The reference to ‘Mad dog’ in the title today refers to an arty magazine I picked up in the Birdcage. It’s for Norwich, Ipswich, Bury and Colchester and I’ve yet to discover what it’s all about. Same goes for Outline. With this one there is a hint on the front “Norwich Listings Guide.” Checking the listing I see that there is a ‘Grumpy Hour’ at Branford tomorrow between 5.30 and 7.30pm. Perhaps I’ll go and lower the tone.

Monkey business

2008-09-16T20:32:00.005+01:00

I discovered today that while they were excavating the site where The Forum now stands in Norwich they found the skeleton of a Barbary ape.

The story goes that there was a travelling circus that set up on the site around the 17th century. People would come from miles around to see the strange and exotic animals that included a couple of monkeys and a tiger.

One night, the tiger, obviously not content with it’s diet, broke out from its cage and ate one of the monkeys. The monkey didn’t stand a chance as it was chained to a wall, one presumes, to prevent it from eating the dancing dormice.

Both monkey and tiger died and were buried on the site but no tiger remains were ever found.

Subsequent research on the Internet says that all they actually found was a single bone and it is dated from the 15th to 17th century. More than likely it was someone’s pet.

I hate it when the Internet spoils a good story.

The real fourth Dr Who
I also discovered today that Mr Pastry lived in Norwich. My only memory of the chap was from a picture of him my grandmother had on her biscuit tin.

His real name was Richard Hearne and his character was a bumbling old man with white hair and a rather grand moustache. According to his Wikipedia entry, he was offered the role of Dr Who when Jon Pertwee stood down.

But he wanted to play it as Mr Pastry and the offer was withdrawn.

The cock crows
I was given this bit of genuine Pathe News film today. There’s not a lot more I can say about it other than I was thrilled to get it.

I’ve held it up against every light bulb in my hotel room and no matter how many time I put it down, I find myself picking it up again and looking at it.

It’s no Barbary ape, but for some reason it’s worth far more to me than a bit of old bone would.

Privates on parade

2008-09-15T19:05:00.002+01:00

Norwich was hosting a parade of war veterans that culminated in a fly past by the RAF. Crowds lined the street in the warm late summer sunshine as the military band played a selection of appropriate music for Battle of Britain Day.

I was in a meeting and missed it.

24 Hours from Tulsa (or 172 miles to Norwich to be exact)
It wasn’t the meeting that I’d got up at 4.30 to drive 172 miles to get to. That was at 9.30, although it didn’t start until 10.15, as someone was late. Someone that had only a mile to get to. One mile.

You can check out any time you like
My last week staying in a hotel sees me in a double room. It’s almost exactly the same as a twin room. The only difference being the metal hook that holds the twin bed together is serving its purpose.

Quote 1
“There was an elephant down here last time. I starting humping it and someone filmed it on their mobile.”

Quote 2
”Lipstick on a pig. It’s not a phrase we use here.”
”What would we say then?”
”Painting a turd.”
"Can I get anyone a coffee?"

Punk is alive and well and ringing in my ears in Norwich

2008-09-13T14:43:00.004+01:00

Warm knickers. Now if that doesn’t get me some hits from the search engines, then nothing will. ‘Warm knickers’ were the only two words I could actually make out in a song by The Brownies who were performing at B2 at The Brickmakers on Sprowston Road on Thursday night.

The Brownies are a post-punk band who look like they’re a really nice bunch of people and I’m sure they are, but I couldn't help but feel that they needed a little more anger and passion in their performance. They looked tired and, dare I say, a little bored. But the crowd loved it and if I’d been a little more prepared for what I was about to hear, so would I.

I’m just not convinced that this gig should have been my first dip into the Norwich culture scene. “There’s something wrong, there’s something wrong, there’s something wrong...,” they screamed during another number. “Yes, I can’t understand a bloody word you’re singing,” I think I said, but I couldn’t hear myself above the throbbing bass line.

“They’ve been in lumber all week, really boring,” my friend informed me. I nodded as if I totally understood what he meant. When the music stopped and I asked him to repeat it, it turned out they’d been in London all week recording.

Then it was time for the next band. “I’m not so keen on these,” my friend told me. Their first song was about pissing into the wind. I left before the second.

Right at the other end of the culture scale I’ve signed up for a couple of newsletters that will hopefully introduce me to the creative writing side of town. Once my hearing starts to return I think they’ll enjoy the gentle pace of a poetry reading.

Flat joy
I’ve finally found somewhere to live; a self-contained place just on the outskirts of the city. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to be getting a place I can call my own for the next six months. It’ll be another week until I move in, so that means another four nights in a hotel.

When I was booking they asked if I’d like to have a similar twin room or I could have a double bed in one of their disabled rooms. “All the facilities are exactly the same, they’re just closer to the floor,” said the guy behind desk.

I couldn’t think of a politically correct snappy comeback, so I opted for the twin room before heading back Oop Norf for the weekend.

Braving conkers

2008-09-11T17:28:00.005+01:00

Norwich got a ‘shout out’ on Thought For The Day on Radio 4 this morning, although I suspect the good folk of Norfolk were non too pleased by Anne Atkins’ remark about conkers.

I’ve spent most of the day thinking about what she said and what she meant and what it had to do with anything. So I guess it’s met its remit for making you think all day but to be honest I would rather have wasted my day thinking about something more interesting, like the fact that the UK honey supply will run out before Christmas or do Odour Eaters ever need to go on diets.

Raving bonkers
I’m not one for generalisation, unlike everyone else on the planet, but Norwich property letters have not impressed me at all.

Two viewings today. The first of which was aborted when the little man with the clipboard, mobile phone, maps, copious notes, pamphlets and application forms suddenly realised that he’d forgotten to fetch the keys. “The landlord is in the area and can be here in 8 minutes.” “Tell him to forget it and that you’re very unprofessional,” said the other guy who’d taken half a day off to see the ‘Studio Flat’. “What about you sir?” “The same as him except the last bit as I’ve got another place to see with you, so I'd rather see that before I fire any insults – deserving or otherwise.”

The little man was not having a good day. The keys he had were clearly never going to open the door. He tried. I tried. He tried again. “I just don’t get it. I’ll ring the office. I wonder if there was a problem with them moving out. They were supposed to be gone yesterday… or today.”

Turns out the keys were for the back door (which opens directly into the second bedroom). “It doesn’t look like they’ve gone.” Not unless ‘furnished’ means dirty clothes thrown everywhere, a sink full of dirty dishes, books and papers, loose change an un-flushed toilet, an empty toilet roll holder and a laptop.

“It looks a lot better when it’s empty. And clean." He said using his last drop of salesmanship. "I'm really sorry about this. What do you think?”
“I’d hate to wear out the word unprofessional, but I’m finding it hard to think of another one at the moment.”
“It’s not very good is it?”

I liked the guy.

Still haven't found what I'm looking for

2008-09-10T20:20:00.001+01:00

The world didn’t end, which is a bit of relief, but it does mean I still need to find a place to live. I’ve got a couple of flats lined up for tomorrow and I’ve already been out to check where the first one is. The area seems nice enough; there was a customer in the fish and chip shop in the next street wearing a suit and tie.

When you talk to people about your need for accommodation, why is it that they tell you about places you can’t rent? “We used to have a lovely little place that would be ideal for you. Sadly we sold it three years ago.” “I’ve got a friend that has lodgers. Well she used to. She’s moved to America. She had a lovely big house too.”

Of course the other thing working against me at the moment is the credit crunch. People can’t get mortgages so they’re looking to rent until the economy gets back on its feet – knowing my luck, in about six months time. It also doesn’t help that the place is swarming with students looking for ‘digs’. Well I was here first.

Once I’ve finally got a place I can call my own I’ll be able to explore more of Norwich and acquaint myself with some of more interesting things to see. I also plan to get out to Great Yarmouth while I’m here. I was watching some videos of people who live there and they were waxing lyrical about how wonderful the place is in the summer.

The winter on the other hand is different. They used words like “dump, crap, dull, grey”. So I’d better pencil a visit in sooner rather than later.

If it's December 1941 in Casablanca, what time is it in Norwich?*

2008-09-09T20:21:00.003+01:00

I’m back in rainy Norwich. They tell me that it’s the driest county in the UK. God help the rest of you land lubbers then. I can honestly say that every single day of my life spent in Norwich has been reflected in wet pavements.

On the plus side, I no longer have to bend double to get into my B+B room as I’m booked into a proper hotel. A hotel with real soap and fluffy towels instead of a carbolic block and some sandpaper. They even rang me this morning to ask if I knew where I was going and what time to expect me. I half expected to be greeted by a surprise party, which of course it wouldn’t have been. But I could have faked the surprise.

No place like home**
Finding somewhere to live is proving to be anything but easy. One letting agency tells me that yes, they do have properties available that would suit me down to the ground, but that they don’t have any appointments available until next week at the earliest. I am seeing a couple more places on Thursday. One concerns me a little as the rent has dropped by £75 a month. Also the only available picture of the place is a black door. It looks like a portal into another world and perhaps for £350 a month that’s exactly what it is.

Frankly my dear I don’t give a damn***
”Eight o’clock.”
“What is?”
“The paper. Eight o’clock”.
“It’s The Guardian. Do you mean eighty pence?”
”Sorry mate. I’ve got eight o’clock on the brain. I usually start work at eight o’clock you see.”
“Right. Did you start work at eight o’clock today?”
”Seven. Well he’s not here is he? He’s not here all week. When I come in at eight o’clock everything’s usually done. The papers are out and the shop is tidy. But he’s not here this week so I have to come in at seven.”
“Well the shop looks tidy to me.”
“He told me he wasn’t going to be in this week and that I was to come in at seven.”
”I really must be going.”
”Because I usually come in at eight and that’s what was on my mind as you came in.”
“I see. Do you have my change?”
”On a Saturday I come in a bit later ‘cause there’s no office workers.”
”Yes, I can see the logic in that.”
”But this week…”
”I know. Seven o’clock.”
”Sorry mate you don’t want to be hearing about my troubles. So how’s it hanging?”
“Pop the change in the charity box when you get a spare minute.”
“He doesn’t have one. Well not that I’ve seen anyway. He’s not one for…”
I bet He’s having a lovely, quiet week off.

We have blue soup to start****
I’m not sure about you, but I don’t think the wording of this item on the menu quite works: “Seasonal Soup. Your server will explain today’s flavour.”

* (with appologies to fans of) Casablanca
** Wizard of Oz
*** Gone With The Wind
**** Bridget Jones' Diary

TTFN

2008-09-05T23:49:00.000+01:00

Just over fours hour of driving through torrential rain with nothing to keep me company other than the memories of my first week in Norwich. I'm going to put my stay at the B+B down to experience and never ever trust the Internet to find me a 'great deal' again - unless it's a great deal of heartache.

When I got home and checked my email I found this:
Hi Richard Fair, Did you enjoy your stay at Some Hotel, Norwich, England?
You can WIN free accommodation by completing a few questions for us.

Delete, delete, delete, delete, delete.

I have three nights in my old bed now and a meeting in London all day Monday. So Norwich will have to hold its breath until Tuesday, when I'll be back and checked into a proper hotel where the hot water isn't limited to mornings and the musings of Beavis and Butt-head can't be heard through the paper thin walls.

Why does it always rain on me?

2008-09-04T23:54:00.000+01:00

What’s the cost of a good drenching these days? I’ll tell you: £10.20. That’s £8 for the taxi to place of the soaking and £2.20 for the bus back. Of course I didn’t know I was in for a drenching when I left. I thought I was going to see a flat.

But apparently the landlord ‘forgot to drop the keys off’ and I wasn’t told until I was already drowning on the step of number 19 in a Norwich monsoon. “We can re-arrange the viewing for later,” I was hopefully informed on the phone. “Don’t bother. If he can’t drop off a key what chance have I got if the bidet breaks down?”

I’d decided in advance that I was going to get a taxi to the viewing; it’s a good journalistic type thing to do. Not only does it save on walking, you can interrogate the driver about all sorts of things.

“What’s it like round here?”
“It’s all relative mate.”
”Yes, I’d heard that everyone marries their cousins and the like.”
”You cheeky bugger! What I mean is, if you come from somewhere like Brixton or Moss Side you’ll think they were all pussycats round here.”
”And what do you think if you come from the High Peak?”
“Do you want me to hang around for a few minutes and take you back?”

I got the bus back into town. The nice helpful woman waiting in the rain with me told me that the fares had just gone up and it would cost me £2.20 for the single trip.
“Is that dear?”
“It is if you haven’t got £2.20.” The bus pulled up and I got on.
“So, how does all this work then?”
”Where you going?”
“Norwich.”
”You’re already here mate, but I can take you a bit closer for £2.20.”
”£2.20? Gosh, has it gone up then?”

Swing low sweet chariot

The thrill of the morning set me up for a hearty lunch. I popped into Subway for a Seafood and Crab Wrap. It’s like a production line in there. Three people touch your food as they build your butty right in front of your eyes. In America these guys are called Sandwich Artists. Then it goes to the next one who wraps it up. Then the next one puts it into a plastic bag and puts it next to the till.

By this time it’s out of sight because the production is quicker than the person on the till. Eventually one of the two guys in front of me pays up and waits for his mate, happily swinging his BLT like he was purifying the restaurant with incense ahead of a papal visit. It’ll be in no state to eat I thought as the girl on till suddenly realised that there’s been a production line malfunction and this guy is actually gyrating my lunch.

Ooops upside my head

There was a danger that it was going to turn onto one of those days. However by a piece of ineptitude by me previously, things ended on a bit of a high note. Earlier in the day, when I was in the taxi, we passed a hotel close to where I’m working that would be ideal for me to stay next week for a couple of days, rather than the one I’d already booked which isn’t too far from the dump I’m in at the moment. So I go online to cancel my booking only to find that I’d managed to cock that up and had actually booked into the hotel I now preferred. Result.

The air that I breathe

I popped into Boots for some Nasal Strips. “Is it safe to wear more than on at a time?” I asked. “Why on earth would you want to do that?” “Well…”
While I was trying to scrape the burnt margarine off my scrabbled egg breakfast, I heard a couple of guys at another table moaning about their lack of sleep.

Apparently some moron in the hotel was snoring very loudly. By a process of elimination I figured they were talking about me as I heard one of them say, “It’s the guy in Room 4”.

So I’ve invested in some nasal strips in the hope that it delivers the promise that they “Reduce Snoring,” as I’d hate to upset these guys again and have them break into my room in the early hours and butcher me. So to be on the safe side I’m going to try using half the box. Five should be enough shouldn’t it?

It’s A Small World After All

2008-09-03T20:23:00.001+01:00

Imagine my surprise at bumping into Bernard Hill in the Chinese on the way home – I thought he went down when the Mersey Ferry sank, or was it the Titanic? Anyway, it was he. I resisted the urge to ask him for a job as I bet he gets that all the time and I didn’t want an unsightly Victor Meldrew/Father Ted moment.

It’s been that sort of day really, bumping into people I know from elsewhere. Chris, who I worked with on a variety of Manchester stuff and Darren, who was one of many who have passed through our office gaining vital experience at the cutting edge of whatever it was he was doing.

Lend us a fiver
Have a look in your wallet or purse. Without looking, do you know whose picture is on the reverse? None other than Elizabeth Fry - 1780-1845. She used to worship at the Friends Meeting House in Norwich.

Her family were bankers and founded the company that went on to become Barclays. So, rather fitting that she should end up on the back of a note. Elizabeth Fry went on to become one of the most influential prison reformers in the world. So rather fitting that she should end up as swag.

Cutting the mustard
I really must pop into The Mustard Shop in the Royal Arcade. It says in this little guide I have here that it’s “More than just mustard.” I presume that means gifts as well. Every item imaginable adorned with their logo.

Mugs, key rings and fridge magnets. Oven gloves, tea towels and narrow boats. Removable tattoos and special stencils so you can shave Colman’s Mustard into the hair on your back. It wouldn’t surprise me if there was a Colman’s Mustard Special Edition Directors Cut DVD of Titanic.

Perhaps that’s why Bernard Hill is in town, to sign copies in special yellow ink that you mustn’t get in your eyes.

Stephen Fry in panto… oh yes he is!

2008-09-02T20:44:00.003+01:00

Everyone’s talking about it – on street corners, in the bars and restaurants. Actually, that a lie. I’ve not heard one person mention it, even though it’s the headline in tonight’s Norwich Evening News. Reading on and he’s not going to be there at all, it’ll be a film of him playing the role of the mirror mirror on the wall in Snow White at the Theatre Royal. It’s a bit of a swizz if you ask me.

That’s the thing about theatre these days, what with all the technology available to them there’s hardly a need for the actors to turn up at all. They could just show a film; something that the critics of 365 at the Playhouse in Edinburgh no doubt wished for.

I laughed myself to sleep last night reading the Guardian’s Review of Reviews of the production:
”Only the ghost of a play” Observer
”A self-indulgent flop” Telegraph
And my favourite from The Independent – “Fourteen characters in search of a play”.

Dem bones, dem bones
I was chatting to an archaeologist today who’s been working on excavating part of Norwich Cathedral. They found a load of skeletons in stone coffins. Apparently what they used to do in the 12th Century was keep the bodies in a special chapel until they’d “reduced in size somewhat”. Then they’d be transferred into fairly shallow coffins. Amazing stuff, but more importantly we got on to talking about that other thing that interests archaeologists – beer.

Only here for the beer
“There’s this great pub you must go to called the Blank and Blank. It’s near a well-known landmark. A great place to drink and meet people.”
“That’s the one over the road from where I’m staying. Thanks I’ll give it a try one night when I’m feeling a bit lonely.”
Two hours pass and I’m talking to another guy who isn’t an archaeologist – in fact just the opposite, he’s a sort of architect.”So where you living at the moment?””Not far from a well-known landmark.””You need to be a bit careful round there; you’re not too far from the Red Light area. They tend to hang out around a pub called the Blank and Blank.”
“Super.”

Public performance
The thing about restaurants that have the kitchen as a focal point in the middle of the eating area is that when it kicks off between a chef and a waitress about who did or didn’t drop something on a plate of food, everyone knows about it.

Even the young child at the table next to mine who thought that it was a cue for everyone to start shouting and slamming things down. I thought about cheering him up with the news that Stephen Fry was going to be in panto, but I just knew he’d be disappointed that it was only going to be virtual appearance and that would have made tings worse.

Just another manic Monday

2008-09-01T21:13:00.003+01:00

I’m told that early visitors to this part of the country (Norwich) were called ‘Strangers’. They were made to feel unwelcome and were totally ignored by the ‘Locals’. So much so that they all adopted pet canaries to keep them company. It’s true. That’s why Norwich City FC is known as the Canaries. Obvious really.

Happily they all seem much friendlier these days towards out-of-towners like me. Good job really as I haven’t found a Pet Shop yet. Just in case I bought a tin of sweet corn. It doesn’t sing but it is yellow and if I get hungry I can eat it, which wouldn’t be the case with a canary. Unless I get really hungry.

Actually I did have sweet corn for my tea with some tuna on a malted bread sandwich from Budgens followed by a pack of Tropical Fruit Salad.

I’m trying to be virtuous with my eating while I’m here, plus I still feel guilty from stuffing my face with the remains of a packet of gummy sweets that I found in the glove box when I pulled into a motorway service station yesterday suffering from stress brought on by my Tom Tom packing up again, a mile before I was supposed to either come off the motorway, stay on or turn around when possible.

On my way down I was listening to BBC Radio Norfolk who had an interview with a guy who busked in Norwich city centre with some puppets. He was singing along to Yazoo’s Only You. But because of the credit crunch, the lure of another position and the fact that he couldn’t sing, he’s hung up his puppets for the final time; much to the relief of many a shop owner and passing pedestrian and, no doubt, Yazoo.

So who’s going to replace this colourful puppet master on the streets of Norwich? Step forward the Croc guy. He spends most of the day pushing a trolley loaded with Crocs up and down Haymarket.

Every few yards or so he stops and checks that none of his stock have gone walkabout on their own. You can get a great view of all this from Starbucks window.

I’m sure I’ll figure out where the local theatres and cinemas are soon.

I’ve just had a thought: Where did the ‘Strangers’ get their canaries?

Arrival

2008-08-31T20:48:00.005+01:00

"Yours is a single room yes?"

What I didn't realise was that the word 'single' referred to the items of furniture available to me. Thankfully it's a bed. There's no wardrobe, no table, no set of drawers (no Gideon Bible). In fact this B+B is so basic (at £30 a night) that it doesn't even include a hook on the wall or door to hang a noose on.

"You're right next to the toilet and there's a shower room too - you're here five nights yes?"
"Yes."
"Well I guess you'll be wanting to use that at some point so I've put a towel on your bed."
"I don't suppose it's Egyptian cotton by any chance?"
"Breakfast is at 8. Are you looking for somewhere to eat this evening?"
"Yes."
"Just over the way at Riverside there's that really cheap pub-like place."
"Lovely."

I walked into town. It was deserted apart from a guy sat in a doorway with a guitar singing The Streets Of London. "So how can you tell me you're lonely, And say for you that the sun don't shine?" An hour before I'd driven trough a torrential rainstorm.

I get a text from home replying to my first impressions. "It's can't possibly get any worse." I smile. I hear a couple of voices outside my door and all I can think of are the last words my daughter said to me. "Watch out for travelling ventriloquists."

I'll leave the light on tonight.

Nearly time to go

2008-08-26T13:09:00.001+01:00

Stripes

Monday will be my first official day in Norwich and apart from the day I spent there convincing people to have me for six months, I've never been before.

So this is going to be a journey of discovery of both the city and me.

Most of what you'll read here will relate to my time outside of the nine to five job as I explore what Norwich has to offer the short term resident and part-time tourist.