Despite a morning spent frantically scribbling, I don’t feel like the day has brought anything of note. The only change is a growing restlessness, telling me I need to move on. Perhaps it’s the stifling heat down here, but I find myself increasingly certain that I need to be back in Scotland.

I’m a cold-blooded thing – my legs are so white they become luminous in the gloaming, and if the temperature rises above about fifteen degrees, I find myself fighting the urge to strip naked and jump into the nearest body of water. I detest people (en masse) and miss driving on winding lanes where rush-hour constitutes a tractor and two cars. I miss the continuous summer rain that would drown a Fen, but somehow seems to seep magically into the greenery. Please don’t misunderstand, England has wonderful points. The blissful Norfolk Broads, Thetford Forest, the Bacon Sandwich Man at Scotch Corner, and the safety of Mr Culpin’s house all give this place a magnificent charm of its own.

But ignore me, my ramblings today are transient and confused. I think I used up all my words this morning and am left to express my discomfort with the dregs. Roll on frost, snow and hail. Roll on thick woolen coats, hats and scarves and king sized duvets. Or somebody buy me a chest freezer, and leave me there for an hour or two. Blissful.

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