Those No-sooner-have-i-touched-the-pillow People Are Past My Comprehension.

I Have Always Been Delighted At The Prospect Of A New Day, A Fresh Try, One More Start, With Perhaps A Bit Of Magic Waiting Somewhere Behind The Morning.

It Had The Old Double Keyboard, An Entirely Different Set Of Keys For Capitals And Figures, So That The Paper Seemed A Long Way Off, And The Machine Was As Big And Solid As A Battle Cruiser. Typing Was Then A Muscular Activity. You Could Ache After It. If You Were Not Familiar With Those Vast Keyboards, Your Hand Wandered Over Them Like A Child Lost In A Wood. The Noise Might Have Been That Of A Shipyard On The Clyde. You Would No More Have Thought Of Carrying One Of Those Grim Structures As You Would Have Thought Of Travelling With A Piano.

What A Grand, Higgledy-piggledy, Sensible Old Place Norwich Is!

Those No-sooner-have-i-touched-the-pillow People Are Past My Comprehension. There Is Something Bovine About Them.

But Some Of Us Are Beginning To Pull Well Away, In Our Irritation, From...the Exquisite Tasters, The Vintage Snobs, The Three-star Michelin Gourmets. There Is, We Feel, A Decent Area Somewhere Between Boiled Carrots And Beluga Caviare, Sour Plonk And Chateau Lafitte, Where We Can Take Care Of Our Gullets And Bellies Without Worshipping Them.