(With apologies to Dr Johnson)

 

Will I ever be sick of Sheringham?

Will I tire of the chugging, antique train?

Will I be overcome with a dark ennui,

When the pavements become speckled

With soft, gentle, summer rain?

 

Will I eventually weary of the rolling waves,

Of the gurgling foam, as it rides up the shore?

Will I say ‘no’ to ice cream with sprinkles on top?

Will I shout at the anglers and tell them to “Stop!”

 

The answer is ‘no,’ for as I say to my wife,

“If you are tired of Sheringham, darling,

You are tired of life!”