So that's why it's called Blackpool

It's just like Paris, only less so.Yesterday, we decided to be frightfully Northern and have a day out in Blackpool. I'm by no means a fan of the place, having spent an eternity of a weekend there one November a few years ago. But yesterday's weather was glorious, and the company was fairly acceptable, and, on the whole, it didn't turn out too bad.

We started at St Anne's, where the tide was out—about a mile out. But we went for a paddle anyway, and we got to see a huge flock of knots—one of the natural wonders of the British Isles.

After the obligatory ice creams, we then headed off to Blackpool proper, and had a drive along the front. After skimming some stones at a quiet beach at the north end of town, we headed back to the main drag, and had fish & chips at Harry Ramsden's.

And then we went home.

But, when we got home, I discovered that the soles of my feet were totally black. One shower, and a half-hour session with a scrubbing brush in the bath later, and my feet are a slightly greyer shade of black. I'm not kidding: I really can't shift the stuff.

I have absolutely no idea where the black came from, but I think the clue might be in the name.

Filed under: Nonsense

Richard Carter

A fat, bearded chap with a Charles Darwin fixation.

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