A dislocating experience. No, really.

Sigh. So there we were, all set this morning for a leisurely cruise along the river, into a Broad or two, stopping wherever we wanted (or could, more accurately), and enjoying the brighter weather which included actual sunshine - and I wrecked the whole thing. Leaping hurriedly off the side of the boat to warn the Captain that he was about to bump the old-fashioned yacht moored ahead of us (crewed by Three Men who were having a wonderful time in the pub last night), I slipped, fell onto my right shoulder and both broke and dislocated it. At least I didn't fall into the shockingly cold water! (Only bright spot).

I can't really recommend a shoulder dislocation, other than its making giving birth seem like a walk in the park - which I was reminded of when the ambulance finally turned up and the nice man gave me gas and air, which I last sucked at just over 21 years ago as the Baby arrived. It's not very funny having invisible veins, either, so it took five (literal) stabs to get a line going. And then, all that swinging about on the end of my arm to manouevre it back into the socket was far from a bundle of laughs, especially being accused of "fighting it". The morphine that came next was a great disappointment, as I slept through the whole trip. Altogether, pretty much a write-off, as far as holiday fun is concerned. At least it was all free! Thank you, NHS, and British tax-payers.

So the ship was abandoned, and we were back to driving round the Broads, enjoying windmills, big skies, huge fields of green wheat and bright yellow rape-seed, hump-backed bridges, flint churches with sturdy square towers, and the rows of brightly-painted beach huts above the stony strand at Cromer. Almost as good. (Not really.)