It would appear that, even after just three days, the burden of writing something every day is already starting to wear me out.

You’re right, it is pathetic. But I at least I am being a brave man and admitting my patheticism. I am not in denial or anything like that. I am well and truly out of denial. I have drawn a line in the sand with my big toe, underneath denial. That makes it all OK, right?

This dreadful weariness means that today I am reduced to the tragic act of writing a dreary and pointless thing?

“Dreary and pointless?” you say. “Better than the norm, then. Result!”

“Oh, buzz off,” I reply. Sometimes I am not as ready to accept my crumminess as I am other times.

Also, there’s nothing better than the Norm. Norm is a legend. Norman Lamb, especially – his surname is tasty with mint sauce, which is something that nothing written here can boast about without being a liar.

Southwold. It’s not actually that much of a middle-class, smug, horribly-nice town. It doesn’t stink of piano lessons and gluten-free ice creams and that. Not that there’s anything wrong with a town that does, of course. It’s just that one sort of expects Southwold to be one of the towns that do, and one faints a little – just a little, mind – when one discovers that one’s expectations are not met.

In fact, Southwold is one of those seaside towns full of slightly-shrivelled, elasticised, wobbly retired people who suck on boiled apricot ice creams and have beige mobility scooters. It’s not really entertaining – depressing, perhaps, especially if you’re a tad shallow like what I am – but if you are hoping to be able to listen to braying people going on about their gap years and holidays and schools and horse trials and skiing – as you can tell, I’m rubbish at this whole stereotypes malarkey – you will be disappointed if you go to Southwold with a view to quenching your thirst for these thrills.

But it’s still quite nice and pretty, and has a tinge of smug, caricatured ghastliness. It’s not exactly almost a parody of a haven crawling with sandals and tofu, like some places, but enough that way to not be full of idiots sitting in their cars looking at the car park fence eating stale Battenberg cake.

That’s all I’ve got. Do you have a problem with that, yeah?