Once in Aldeburgh for the festival,

I checked out all the hotels. The White Hart

Was full up. (I knew I should have reserved).

So I decided to try Saxmundham,

Where my mum was stationed during the war

And often spoke of its bucolic charm.

Resplendent in ATS uniform,

She stares at me out of that photograph.

The room in the local pub seemed quiet,

But, returning from the show that evening,

The scene was near to a dystopia,

Of drunks and druggies. ‘How this place has changed’,

The landlord groaned. ‘They call us Giro Town.’

One a.m. Football chanting dies away.