A man stepped of the bus in front of me wearing a tight short dress, fish net tights, very high heels and surprisingly, no jacket.
The wind was blowing hard off the sea and there was the treat of rain but this is Blackpool and it’s were only softies go out in a coat.
I am one of those softies as I am wearing my jacket today, buttoned up, with a scarf.
The central bus stop is just by the tower, I automatically look up at it, to see if you can see its top. Today I am lucky, the cloud is not that low and there seems to be some work-men clinging to the sides.
I am in town to do some shopping, nothing special, just to have a look and see what’s in the shops. I hesitate at which way to go, towards the shopping centre with its more main stream shops, or the charity one the other way.
I decide the charity shops first, maybe find a hidden treasure.
The buildings here are low, built in the boom time of the town, Victorian Britain. Unfortunately they did not meet housing regulations then, and have not been improved since, looking up, above the shop fronts show dirty, broken windows, gutters growing small gardens of weeds , missing roof slates.
Even though it is known for its dodgy dealings and prostitutes, this town is not quite as open about it in comparison the streets of Paris or Amsterdam. Us British keep our sex behind closed doors and down the dark alley ways. Sex shops have blacked out windows and the ladies of the night are harder to spot. Even the Ann Summers of the high street looks a little out of place, though this is mild and vanilla to the more private places.
A lady in long shirt and a coloured head scarf tided round her head stops me and tries to tell me fortune with tiny silver charms, I polity decline.
A family exit the fast food restaurant in front of me and I am forced to slow down, unable to overtake. I presume it is their size that forces them to walk so slow, They waddle in front of me, very over weight, talking loudly to each other, pale faces screwed up against the wind. A typical native.