So Britain basks. But none of your Bournemouths or Brighton's for us. No, we went to Hornsea, a little gem of Victoriana on the neglected east coast, which would surely be a really expensive curio if there was something as new-fangled as a train line there (the victim of Beeching cuts - and now a charming track for mini Motos). It was lovely, gazing out from the promenades to the North Sea, despite the abundence of semi-nakeds on Shoppers. Genteel, and delightful, in a lazy Sunday kinda way. Later, and perhaps ravaged by the sunbeams, I decide to sell my original Rolf Harris stylophone, complete with 70s packaging and demonstration disc. To me it sounds like marrauding bees caught in a pylon, but I reckon the Klaxons or one of the princes of New Rave will snap it up jack quick.