The wait goes on for a Singing Postman tribute act to deliver headline goods at Glastonbury.

Surely just a matter of time before a rousing rustic revival.

Meanwhile. a search begins in Case of the Missing 287 in North Norfolk, an intriguing puzzle bound to prompt a plaintive chorus  of Hev Yew Gotta Clew, Boy?

Newly released statistics reveal two parts of our county were among a handful of areas in England Wales taking a population drop in the space of a year up to June, 2022 North Norfolk’s total fell by 287 while Great Yarmouth went down by 132.

“Experts” claim part of the reason for those tumbles is that folk who temporarily left towns and cities for more rural areas during the Covid pandemic returned to their original abodes.

High numbers of second homes in North Norfolk coupled with an ageing population may also have led to that  drop.

A smaller cut in numbers at Yarmouth could well be the result of growing excitement over a major restoration project for the last surviving Victorian seaside cast-iron and glass Winter Gardens to become a  dazzling year-round visitor attraction.

At least two dozen home-grown roller-skating enthusiasts who relished energetic times on the old indoor rink before it closed are known to have returned to live in the resort and plan a gentle reunion” lap of honour”  to mark a proud chapter in the town’s competitive history as a new era unfolds.

Few obvious pointers to potential reasons for a North Norfolk drop over twice the size of Yarmouth’s modest decline. There have been rumours of defections to Chelsea-on-Sea and Tittleshall-cum- Godwick by a number of  upwardly mobile cliff climbers clambering for recognition at Happisburgh. Weybourne and West Runton.

No clear evidence, however, of discomfort caused by looking down on people from a great height.

Just a predictable repeat of the old question: Who took the “p” out of Happisburgh – twice? All part of a phonetically modified programme in the name of peaceful co-existence.

As a proud resident of North Norfolk since 1988, growing old gratefully in Cromer next to the Old German Ocean, I felt compelled to seek explanations  for those 287 souls apparently going absent without leave from a much-lauded part of the world  with a long waiting-list to get in.

So I contacted private eye Dick Barton-Turf. That’s the handle he uses when a bit of extra gravitas is needed to impress potential clients who carry bags of money, lofty self-esteem and a passion for making society waves in posher parts of Broadland.

I know him better as Crabpot, bobbing about in darker waters surrounding  Poppyland Pimpernels Investigation Agency. He worked with the best before washing up here, including Denver Sleuth beyond Downham and Walsingham Matila, an expert on the fleshpots of Fakenham and Pudding Norton.

Crabpot knows his patch well. He served an angst-ridden probing  apprenticeship with Cromer Crime Crackers in a golden age before second homers, bobble-hatted twitchers and celebrity chefs rendered it all but impossible to know where the next suspect might be coming from.

A vast network of informants playfully dubbed Poppyland Petals has opened up a useful file on comings and goings since Clement Scott’s flowery prose and a new railway line from London sparked a late-Victorian upheaval to set tongues wagging way beyond  the lost village of Understrand.

I am reliably informed over half the North Norfolk missing 287 simply went back to established headquarters because they couldn’t get their  “local news” on television in the new environment, find a delicatessen  stocking their favourite extra virgin olive oil or understand what on earth  that strange chap at the door wanted when he kept on about “harf o’ mild an’ good ole  community spirit.”

A dozen or two soon called it a day on realising they hadn’t left a note for the milkman, fed the dog, watered tomato plants, cleaned the fridge or cancelled the weekly delivery from Fortnum & Mason.

The rest probably offered a variety of excuses about lively North Sea breezes, rural smells and noises, shortage of milliners, suspicious neighbours and too many invitations to help out at the local garden fete with strange attractions like bowling for the coypu, guess name of the suffragette doll  and weight of the vicar’s stipend.

One disenchanted recruit curtly summed up his experience thus: “I came after hearing North Norfolk was good for arthritis …well, I got it after just a matter of days!”

Crabpot warns against reading too much into population statistics at a time when so many people are on the move without clear motives for taking the plunge one way or the other.

“Bit like England wicket-keeper Jonny Bairstow, I reckon,” he adds with a smile... "not sure whether to stay put or try something a bit more adventurous..."