There'll always be an England

The Peak District is a fascinating place.

He's dead, but he won't lie down! said Phyllis, who works in one of the local Oxfam shops. The till drawer popped open, catching her on the hip. I got the impression that it was a surprise every time. I think she was talking about John Thaw, she'd found out we came from Oxford. Is this literature? she asked, trying to find a category for the Best of Linda Smith book that I was buying. I explained that she was a comedian, and had also sadly died. Maybe it's leisure, then, she said.

After a pint of Druid Ale and a bite to eat in the deserved winner of the Best Pub Sandwich of the Year Award 2005, we went for a gentle stroll on the moors in the hail. It would have been fine except I didn't have a belt on, and once my trousers soaked through they started sliding down my legs. I was wielding new walking poles, purchased at a knock-down price from a shop that also sold clitoral jewellery (only in Derbyshire, surely), so didn't have a free hand. It all got a bit gritty. But we got back to the car in the end, and came home for a hot bath followed by pickled garlic and Scotch in our pyjamas.

Later, we watched the news. It seems the banking system is about to enter meltdown. Makes me glad I haven't got any money, and that my dad keeps all his in paperweights.

joella