So natural it still has tits. Very tasty crackling they made, too.

Incidentally, if there are any London carnivores reading this, I’ve discovered a wonderful butcher in Green Lanes. Its called Baldwins and it has a wonderfully traditional and unsqueamish way of doing business. You get all the usual cuts of beef, pork and lamb, but you can also pick up more exotic items such as whole sheep’s heads, brains, pigs’ tails and very affordable game such as guinea fowl, quail, partridge and pheasant. The sausages are also excellent.

If I could only find somewhere that did pork pies in the traditional Lincolnshire manner, then I’d be completely set up. Though a supplier of haslet would be pretty welcome too.

You’ve got to hang something on the walls, make it a home. Don’t matter if it’s a slice of tree trunk with a badly-painted and darkly-varnished cat. You don’t look at it, see. It’s not a sitting room like you know it: it’s an observation bunker. The sofas face the windows, not the walls or even the telly. You look at me and at my cat. I look at you. You look at the river, the ducks look back. Apart from when they’re gang-raping each other. Then I’ll come out and join you and watch.

Been meaning to get a new picture anyway.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

We were thinking of going to the Lincolnshire coast today. But, now I’ve checked the thrilling Lincolnshire Coastcam (pictured above), I think I’d much rather return to London. It might be crowded and filled with crazies, but at least there’s something more to say than ‘flat’ and ‘boring’.

Back later.

My mother lives on the extreme edge of Spalding. If I look out our bedroom window I can see miles of flat fields, dotted with the odd house and thunderstruck tree. The skies are massive and could make the largest crowd of people look like a scattering of rabbit shit on a rollered lawn. But there’s something silty about this place, not just in its drainage channels but in its people. Living here leaves you with a gritty residue wherever you subsequently go.

It also sends you a bit strange, capable of writing paragraphs like the one above. So let me shake my head vigorously, slap my cheeks and start again.

We got here early yesterday afternoon and, when lunch was over, walked the two miles into town. As we approached the centre, my mother veered off and took the baby to Ayscoughfee Hall gardens. Anne and I headed off to the excellent Bookmark bookshop, and the second hand bookshop opposite it. We were gone for less than half an hour.

We went back to Ayscoughfee Hall to rejoin my mother and the baby. We saw them as soon as we veered into the gardens, just after passing a minibus into which some disabled people were being shepherded.

“We’ve had fun,” said my mother.

“Oh really?”

“Yes, it was like that time that woman collapsed in Mablethorpe.”

“God, that was a long time ago. I remember you bringing her around from that heart attack.”

“That’s right.”

“Still, it was her own fault for discharging herself from hospital. I swear she was smoking a fag when she was talking to you.”

“Yes. Anyway, this time we’ve just rescued a man with Alzheimers who drove his wheelchair into the pond.”

“Why did he do that? Was he bored?”

“I don’t know, but when he was in there he obviously thought his wife was getting him out of the bath. The baby was very good though. He watched from the side.”

“So what happened?”

“Well, the baby and I were chatting to a nice lady who’s with her grandson who’s got Down’s syndrome. Then we heard a big splash, and there was the man in the pond. Anyway, we managed to get him out, and I said shall I ring my son, but they said no. So I sent someone into the teashop to get a coat, then I said to the men ‘Can you take his shirt and vest off or he’ll freeze’, but they said no.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. They obviously didn’t think it was the done thing.”

“Well, I suppose it is fairly warm. He’ll probably be OK.”

“I hope so. Oh, there’s that nice lady again.”

And sure enough, she was a nice lady and she had a happy grandson. She told us all about how the child’s parents doted on him although, for some reason, her sister couldn’t accept that the child had Down’s syndrome: “She doesn’t like it. She just says ‘It’s not right’.”

When she left, she said something that was grim because she felt it necessary. Not simply “nice to meet you” or “good to have met you”, but this:

“Thank you for being so nice.”

This is where we’re going tomorrow. Flat, isn’t it?

This is Spalding in Lincolnshire, where my mother now lives. We’re taking the boy and, with luck, whilst he spends a bit of time with his granny, I can write some more of that book proposal, hammer out an application for a museum project, visit the excellent Bookmark bookshop and get a bit of sleep in. Wish me luck.