IpswichAs a Norfolk reared, Colmans slurping, son of a Canary, the tedious business of negotiating Ipswich led to a little discomfort. Mind hives. I'll keep this section short.
It was dusk, but their dusk was no more than a dirty grey sky with a rumour of blue. The ground was skiddy underfoot: grease and mud.
As with Colchester, the only food available was either reconstituted, battery farmed or from neo-colonialists Tesco. Eventually I found a good little fish & chip shop and got involved.
A fish supper is a treat once in a while. However, standing under bus bay M's awning at Ipswich bus station, scoffing soggy chips out of a polystyrene tray, surrounded by chavs drinking cheap cider and smoking tabs, I found my deep fried dinner had taken on a grimier character. Ipswich turned my battered sausage bad.
The chavs stayed in the bus shelter. I don't think they were waiting for a bus.
BrainTrea cleChessStirr upSwitch
Next stop: Diss
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