Kiss me quick…

For months I have been threatening to take Agnieszka to Blackpool. Whenever we are out somewhere, on moor or beach, I attempt to point out the tower. This has happened so often she now hates the very mention of it. So when friends cancelled a proposed trip on Sunday, I decided we should go anyway, and we did.
An hour’s drive is all it is and the parking was fairly painless to find, albeit painful to pay for (£4.50 for four hours). Even at quarter to twelve the pubs weren’t empty, with plenty of people topping up the previous night’s levels. Occasional groups of stags and hens were wandering around, looking for a starter pub and several old soaks gave character to the tatty centre of town.
As a child we used to come to see the lights, so my impressions are of trams lit up, the prom aglow and a happy feeling. How different it looks now, on a cloudy, chilly Sunday in May. What anyone could find attractive about the place is beyond me. Even the highlight – a trip up the Tower – now has to be combined with the circus for a bargain ticket price of £12. The Pleasure Beach, Waxworks, Waterlife Centre adding to the cost by charging around the ten pound mark. Compared to that, the 50p to get on North Pier seemed something of a bargain. A pleasant stroll past fair rides and a bar, a good view of the Golden Mile and the smell of the sea. As we left, we passed a man on the way in, leather jacket, smoking, smelling, a patch of dribble from a recent toilet trip (or accident) marking the front of his fleecy jogging trousers. Ah Blackpool, you will stay in our memories, but for all the wrong reasons…