Let me explain. Just fifty yards from Sue's front door in Hopton is a bus stop for the 1A and sometimes, as I pass by, I get to wondering whether I'll ride that bus before I die.
Now for some reason the thought stayed with me, like one of those naughty dreams that flavours your whole day and so last Thursday, with blue skies calling and a bus pass in hand, I finally flagged down the 9.48 bus. I'll be honest, my expectations were not high.
You won't remember last Thursday, but here in Norfolk it was positively, continental. Sitting top-deck, wrapped in a comfort blanket of warm sunshine I tried to second guess where the driver was heading. Maybe it was his birthday, because clearly he had been given carte-blanche as far as the route was concerned. I'm guessing instructions were along the lines of, "Just get to Martham before midday." Marine Parade on Gorleston seafront looked utterly sensational. After Great Yarmouth, the bus weaved through Scratby, Hemsby and Ormesby, all the while just a kick in the pants away from a sparkling North Sea, (now that's a phrase you don't hear too often).
And suddenly I was getting off the bus in Martham. And it looked like they'd been expecting me: the grass on the Green had been cut, the litter collected, the children returned to school and the sky enlarged to twice its normal size. Like some old codger I sat on a bench reading, relaxed as a sunbather. Next up it was a tour of the village, before having fish and chips down by the duck pond. It was only an hour but for that hour I owned Martham.
Back on the bus I reflected on what I'd learned: namely, that in most cases, it's better to go than not go.
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