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My crap holiday in Cromer

We fancied a change. After many trips to the Yorkshire coast (we live in Sheffield), we decided to visit Norfolk. As the crow flies, it doesn’t seem that far. We plumped for Cromer – the guidebook blurb told us that it’s a wonderful old-fashioned Victorian seaside resort famous for its crabs. It sounded perfect. ‘It’s rubbish in Cromer,’ said grandma, ominously.

Undeterred, we set off with two friends. Several stomach-churning hours later, we arrived. It was almost midnight. Norfolk wasn’t quite as accessible as we’d thought – not having taken into account the inadequate A-roads and dangerously slow traffic. We expected the place to be buzzing, having had trouble finding a hotel with vacancies. Instead, we arrived to an eerie silence. We pulled into the driveway of our hotel. The house was in complete darkness. On ringing the bell, the proprietor – who bore a striking resemblance to Lurch from The Addams Family – reluctantly opened the door. Clearly it was not the done thing to be arriving so late, and we were shown to our rooms in disgrace. Half-an-hour later, we were creeping along to our friend’s room with a bottle of whisky when Lurch suddenly appeared from behind a cupboard. He made it quite clear that we were breaking curfew hours.

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