It seems that I still have a diary despite its not moving over to its new host yet, so we can still keep up with one another. So good evening to you all.
We are in Blackpool.
This has been splendid, it is the place of so many happy memories. We have strolled along the promenade and clattered up and down the piers so often that they are familiar and homely, and it is nice to be back here with the children, even if they don’t want to go to Jungle Jim’s any more.
We dumped the dogs at Elspeth’s house. Oliver had been working all night, and elected to sleep in the car whilst we sat in her kitchen drinking tea and gassing for so long that we made ourselves late, but it did not matter because we are on holiday, and talking to your friends is a lovely holiday thing to do.
It rained all the way here, and we stared out at it dolefully, because wet afternoons in Blackpool are not always good fun, but the Weather Gods were wonderfully kind, and the skies cleared just as we arrived.
We are staying at a smart hotel.
That is to say, it is smart by Blackpool’s standards. We have always been glad of the camper van, because even the most upmarket accommodation in Blackpool has always been of a distinctly questionable standard. We had a cup of tea in one once-splendid hotel some years ago, only to watch in fascinated horror as a dog trotted in and had an accident just in front of the reception desk. Nobody batted an eyelid, a coach party of disabled people were being unloaded and ushered in at the time, and the hotel staff seemed to think it could be ignored.
This is a new hotel.
It is advertising itself as being the best luxury hotel in Europe, which I can be entirely certain is a complete fib, because it is all right, that is to say there are no dog accidents, but rather like the Travelodge you have to use your room key to get everywhere, and all of the plants are plastic, apart from two olive trees outside which are in glass boxes. I thought this might be because of Blackpool’s weather, but Lucy’s career in the police has given her a rather more jaded line of reasoning.
We had time for the promenade-and-pier outing before dinner, which we had booked early because of the theatre, and I must acknowledge that dinner was ace, despite the plastic plants, and we washed it down with two bottles of a very nice Merlot before setting off to the theatre.
Blackpool Grand is the most splendid theatre, ornate proscenium arch and statues of cherubs all over the place, and Derren Brown was – as always – completely incomprehensibly mind boggling.
I can’t tell you about what he did because the show asks you not to, although there is plenty of wittering about it on the mighty Internet. Suffice to say that we all burst out saying How Did He Do That? to one another in excited tones.
We talked about it all the way back to the hotel, and then in the bedroom afterwards, which degenerated into some undignified fighting on the bed amid memories of the children’s extreme youth and tickly feet.
I like Derren Brown very much, I do wish I was the sort of person who could be hypnotised. He picks his victims very carefully, probably for their abilities to agree to suggestion, and I know perfectly well that I could never qualify, but it might be brilliant fun. Certainly one chap went away from there feeling determinedly confident that a thrilling new life stretched out ahead of him.
I suppose my life is quite thrilling enough as it is really.
I am going to bed. I hope this reaches you. I am going to try and sort out the new host tomorrow.
Probably.
