ABSTRACT
It's nineteen fifty-eight and we are driving down the lanes of Norfolk in a brand new Chrysler shipped over for the trip - as we drive, the grass on the banks brushes both sides of the car. When we park at the Quay in Blakeney a scrum of snot nosed kids rub about the car, 'blimey! Coo-er, smashin motor ... '. I gaze at them through the windows and feel like Jonah in the whale.
