is Norwich’s subtitle, it’s written on the signs as you drive in through the boundaries. It’s eerily quiet in the Fine City tonight, as it was last night and yesterday afternoon too. Sumpin mus be bout to happen, as they say in The Grapes of Wrath. I parked the car in town at 3pm yesterday afternoon opposite a fish restaurant in which there were two old people stopped in the act of drinking coffee, like waxworks. You could hear the sound of the wind blowing, and that was all; it was spooky. Down the road I went into Philip Browne’s, looking for a new jacket to be a football hooligan in next season. I had forgotten that my mate Elvis works in Philip Browne’s. Hey up, I said, Busy? Elvis looked at me as if this must be some sort of trick question. They had a sharp range of Belstaff leather jackets, the motorbike gear manufacturer have gone into fashion, but perhaps everybody knows this. I tried a bomber in a fine, light leather, but at 700 quid or sumpin, I managed to leave it in the shop. Outside the usual bloke was selling his Big Issue, quietly, without shouting. Down the way the drunks were slumped in a circle by the Guildhall as if caught on canvas by Degas. I repeat it: it was spooky.

The Fine City by night from my office window