Open Writing

Apart from the fact that one of our children was almost locked in the Tower for the night, a packet of tablets cost me my purse and its precious contents, considering we never saw a tram stop once, and most of the hotels and guest houses were displaying ‘House Full’ signs by 7.30pm – yes thank you, we spent a lovely weekend at Blackpool!

As most of our children had already donated their weekend’s allowance to the nearest slot machines, we merry band of parents decided to spend the first evening rediscovering the internal delights of the Tower.

With a gentle drizzle playfully destroying mums’ ‘shampoos and sets,’ dads pointing excitedly at the fluorescent puffins and the children nagging eagerly for toffee apples, we naively joined the nearest queue.

After what seemed like an hour contemplating the empty tramlines, our deteriorating hairstyles and the children’s unalluring social habits, the carnival atmosphere began to decline. Depressing rumours concerning an accident further up the line began to circulate the dripping queue. A tram had stopped and almost let a passenger on - we tried to joke ruefully. Anyway as the rest of England seemed to be walking, why shouldn’t we?

‘Have the trams stopped running?’ one intrepid member of our party asked an inspector who appeared reluctant to leave his little wooden hut. Whether the question upset him or it was just the reflection of the pale green lights, his face took on an unhealthy glow. Poor man, we sympathised, life must be frustrating for a tram inspector without trams.

After an interminable walk during which we seriously wondered if the recent weather had affected the toffee apple season and doubled the distance between the South Pier and the Tower, we eventually arrived.

The admission price, which put years on us, had a miraculous rejuvenating effect on the children. But the cashier had already done her own survey. She looked remarkably like the ‘Guess Your Age’ celebrity on the pier. Was she a relative, we longed to enquire?

It sounds incredible but the Tower was populated with the largest bodies I have ever seen. One friend wondered if there was some sort of ‘outsize convention.’ Wherever we went these jolly-faced bouncers were everywhere - all looking as if they had just stepped out of the jolly postcards on the Promenade. It certainly modified my weight problem and made us all feel a stone lighter!

While the children escaped to the universal slot machines, we watched a man struggle to play a trumpet as he pedalled a bicycle wheel in ever decreasing circles around a tiny stage. All his talent was in his feet. We applauded thankfully when he stopped.

But a more entertaining drama was taking place in the ladies’ powder room. As I entered a beautiful West Indian girl supported by one of the ubiquitous corpulants was giving a realistic impression of Shirley Bassey. Tears of woe flooded her earrings as she unleashed her emotions to the row of ‘engaged’ signs. Too embarrassed to intrude, her hysterical outburst had us all glued to our seats in silent trepidation. If this continued much longer, some of us could carry its ‘imprint’ permanently, but after a suitable interval doors started to open and one or two of us crept out.

‘She is always like this when she’s had a drink,’ her plump friend was proudly confiding. ‘It’s since she lost her baby.’

My friend and I turned the corners of our mouths down and made a few remarks on ‘silly exhibitionists’ as we returned to our table.

One hour later I was running wildly in all directions searching for one lost daughter. With lights being switched off and doors being bolted, I sank to my knees in front of a laughing attendant, trying desperately to persuade him he had just locked our daughter in the deserted ballroom. I had almost convinced him that truth is stranger than fiction when our tearful prodigal returned on the arm of her relieved father,

She had gone back to the ballroom for her belt. Restraining my desire to give her another, I waited at the entrance. Unfortunately at midnight the attendants come to life and they can clear the Tower almost as fast as Joe Bugner wins fights. She was forced to leave at another exit.

The following morning had us all rushing for headache pills. The ones I bought certainly gave me one. We were idly watching a demonstrator shoot holes through her victim’s ear lobes giving her ‘press stud’ ears, as our seven-year-old described them, when I felt as if I had been shot myself – my purse had gone!

For someone who has preached regular Friday teatime sermons to outstretched hands on the unimportance of spending-money – my resulting performance was a big let down. We raced from counter to counter without success and finally went to lunch with the result of a morning’s shopping – one small packet of tablets in my bag. The truth is spending-money takes on a greater significance when you have earned it and saved it yourself. It seems that if I am not wasting money I am losing it, when all I want to do is spend it!

But Blackpool is no place for regrets. A liberal helping of good company, good food, another hand-out from my long-suffering supporter and some liquid sustenance eventually diluted the bitterness. Selfishness came to the rescue after all, the West Indian girl had lost her baby!

The wet weather had quite an influence on the ‘funny hat’ trade. A group at a nearby table all had sinister, wide-brimmed black felt hats resting on their eyelids. We nervously wondered if they were Mafia members. But nothing could disguise their Barnsley giggles and we soon realised they were just protective gear.

Considering its devastating effect on transport, the ‘standing room only’ entertainment and general overcrowding, are illuminated weekends proving too much for Blackpool? Is she coping satisfactorily with this weekend boom?

I know one group whose future visits will be Monday to Friday, and next time we plan a bowling trip to support our ‘champion’ I intend to spend at least some time doing just that!