For those who don't know the area, Recreation Road is a quiet village road that would only be used by local residents, visitors to Woodcote Sheltered Housing complex in Firs Road, people going to the funeral directors or general stores or those going to the playing field. In other words a very very small number of vehicles a day.
But now we can press the button and wait for the green man to show before crossing. Perhaps they are planning to re-route the main A11 through Recreation Road and we haven't been told about it yet.
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Met up with the family yesterday afternoon to have a walk round the village lights after dark. Hethersett is very impressive this year with so many lights and other Christmas items on display. It is a joy just to wander round.
Poppy aged five insisted on commandeering my digital camera and took the photos reproduced here. Please remember when viewing them that she is only five years of age. I will be returning over the next few nights with my tripod. To date I feel I have never managed a photo that does the lights justice.
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My blog yesterday about my appalling ability at art and my English teacher brought forth memories for James Utting who many of you will know. James also went to the Norwich School. I stupidly mentioned a poem I had written which I genuinely think is embarrassingly bad.
James dared me to publish it which I did on my daily blog site. He thought it was a portent of things to come:
"As an allegory for the 45th president it's pretty prescient, and not at all bad," he pointed out.
As for me, well I just think it's an extremely bad poem. Here it is so you can make up your mind and I won't be at all upset if you want to post an adverse comment:
His coming was threatened, But none took heed
The world would soon know.
The Yellow God came down one day,
Alighted on the silvery earth,
Pronouncing people out of date,
Banishing all and sundry.
When up in spite he dashed through
Towards the clouds of celestial strife
He touched up the heathen spirit
With a gay tra-lee.
A sportive touch did dwindle away
As lovers sang on a Birchfield Bank.
Aligning homeward, fleeting free.
With whistling touch of platted hair,
He reached the doors of Kingdom's home
Determined on retrospective announcements.
He lighted on a toadstool green
Intent on impish deeds
Of daring defiance against the human race.
The jockey was the first to fall, his horse it did not warrant
The canoe man lost his paddle quick, a victim of the torrent.
The babes were wild, the children chilled
While Demion switched to trade.
Wild Demion, lusting for life
To misery aft-enthralling.
But once came down with a showering thrust
The bolt of Cremaithius' trade
And smote our God upon the breast
And caused his heart to fade.
No more to danger the lives of us
He returned from whence he came.