Monday, March 06, 2006

I Bet You Look Good On The Dance Floor 

We unpeeled the bedroom curtains on Saturday to see that more snow had fallen and headed more or less straight for the beach via the toaster.

It was a beautiful clear blue sky morning and at Fairhaven Lake there were crowds out sledging. Considering it never normally snows here on the temperate west coast, where did all these sledges appear from? They must have been stowed away gathering rust in garages for years, waiting for the day they’d be called into service. It was as if we’d stepped into that painting by Bagel.

In the evening we went to my friend Nicola’s wedding reception.
It was at Norbreck Castle in Blackpool, which until as recently as three weeks ago was still in use as a prisoner of war camp. They've kept the carpets and curtains.

I’d not seen Nicola in ages, or a bunch of other people who were also there. It was like a convention for people who are useless at keeping in touch with each other.
We played ‘Guess The Age Of The Groom’ and I made fun of my friend Karen who has exchanged her Lancashire vowel sounds for some soft Home Counties ones instead.
Simon still insists that I look like one of the blokes from The Undertones. I said that I make two pence every time someone plays Teenage Kicks.

In accordance with wedding disco law the music was atrocious, until Girlfriend had a quiet word with the DJ and then he played One Step Beyond, and Town Called Malice, and Too Much Too Young, and Oliver’s Army, and others I forget now, but which were presumably off the same "Now That's What I Call Hitting Your Forties, Huh?" compilation CD. For an all too brief spell we jumped about and threw shapes like it was 1981. It was ace.

Girlfriend shimmied and twirled in vague silhouette, but is only a girl and picked up some kind of Elvis Costello related toe injury in the process. We were all given cake to take home.

A stiff gale blew in from the Irish Sea as I cycled back to Blackpool to fetch my car on Sunday morning.
I paused to check my reflection in the world’s largest mirror ball - squint and you'll see me; fluorescent is so this year’s shade - and noted that the Pleasure Beach shuttle bus service was running in spite of there being no passengers and - slightly alarmingly - no driver.

I took pictures of the sea and clouds and former prisoner of war camps.
It was quite exhilarating in a cycling into the wind kind of way.
I considered carrying on all the way to Fleetwood then thought better of it, as I believe the Queen Mother once did a few years before me much to the annoyance of the manager and staff of the Euston Hotel who’d put on clean sheets especially.

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