Into the flatlands

I drive through the vast, infinite flats of North Norfolk and Lincolnshire. After Mendham and its water meadows and buttercup fields, suddenly it all seems very brutal; a take no prisoners landscape. It strides out either side of the road - great tracts of what looks like nothing. The odd featureless house stands defiant amidst the unbroken horizon. If this were winter I imagine all sorts of profligate bleakness; lone ranger country with no sign of hope or life for as far as the eye can see...but it's hot now - gone six - and the sun still muscles through the window, determined to enforce my trucker's arm.

Truckers. They're everywhere here - on the road, in the many lay-bys, hunkering down for the night in the motels which pave the way between Kings Lyn and Boston. Even the scarecrows have a certain bloated quality about them. I stare down at my trucker's gut in the making. It lunges out above my waist struggling for release, horrified at the inadequate waistline it's been forced into. What are you gonna do, hey? I've eaten more meat and veg dinners in the last few weeks than is decent and I have access to a particularly healthy selection of ice cream out back. I can't stop now. I'll deal with it when the tour is over. I like living like a trucker if the truth be told and if it means venturing into the world of the elasticated waistband then so be it.