Blackpool here we come (again).
Last day of the Christmas holiday arrived. Sigh.
Just in the nick of time if you ask me. I was about to into the ‘why does no one but me ever DO anything in this place’ rant when Bob, seeing my less than smiling face, as I loaded the dishwasher for the umpteenth time, suggested that we go to the Tower Ballroom for the day.
Oh! That was unexpected. My plan for the day had been to go the the recycling centre and get rid of all the evidence empties. That, and clean the bathroom etc etc, you know the format.
A quick change of clothes later I grabbed the dance shoes and off we jolly well went.
It was surprisingly quiet at the tower, the girl at the ticket counter seemed surprised we didn’t want to go into the circus. Mooky the clown? No thanks.
The usual mix of holiday makers, day trippers, amateur and serious/competitor dancers were all there. You can always spot the latter, they are the ones either dressed all in black or, even worse than that, the ones in sports wear with a towel round their necks, refusing to make eye contact with anyone as they walked on and off the floor like Russian olympic athletes, barking instructions at each other and scowling at any day tripper who dares to cross their ‘ever so talented’ paths. They’re the ones who always think they’re better than they are, half the time they’d look better sat down.
Mind you, one ‘all in black’ couple were brilliant!!! I very nearly swooned when I saw their quickstep. It was fabulous, I can only aspire and watch in admiration. Not only that but they were gracious and friendly to everyone. That’s more like it. It’s only dancing for God’s sake, it’s meant to be fun.
There was a very glam old couple in the ballroom, word reached us that they had just celebrated their 70th wedding anniversary and had been dancing at the tower all their married lives. They were 90 and 92 and still putting most of the younger couples to shame (us included) both on the dance floor and in the sartorial elegance stakes.
Here is ‘The Mighty Wurlitzer’ rising up from the stage. Always reminds me of Monty Python when I see it. When I realised it was time for the organs to swap over (that sounds ever so slightly rude) I dashed up into the balcony so I could get a pic of one organ moving back out the way while the Wurltizer rose up from the floor. Such was my haste that I misjudged the height of the last step and very nearly dived head first over the balcony and onto the stage, much to the amusement of a couple seated nearby. God! There’s me nearly killed and those two were laughing their socks off. I suppose it was quite funny to watch me teetering on the brink, arms waving wildly trying to regain my balance.
Here’s the ballroom in all it’s glory. The words, ‘ Bid me discourse and I will enchant thine ear’ are written on the banner above the stage where ‘The Mighty Wurlitzer’ is positioned.
If you look closely enough at the picture below you’ll see B, watching bemused as me and the bar staff kept setting the timer on the camera and placing it on the chiller cabinet because it was at exactly the right height to get the image I wanted.
It’s superbly ornate, they must have used enough gold paint to float a battleship. It looks Victorian but it isn’t – it was all rebuilt after a fire in ????
We danced our little legs off, we even got to dance a ballroom tango, most unusual in a public ballroom. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee( that was me being over excited, slightly tempered by the fact that there was so much sequence dancing).
We stayed until they threw us out and locked the door behind us. On throbbing feet we walked back to the car and on the way we saw this spectacular sunset.
You’d think that would be enough for one day wouldn’t you but no, B decided that we would treat ourselves to dinner out at our all time favourite restaurant.
Scallops followed by pepper steak. Yum, yum, yum.
I was kept amused not only y B’s scintillating conversation but by the people on a nearby table. One of the guests at the birthday party was having a less than spectacular time. Well, that’s how it looked to me. If he was having fun then his brain most definitely forgot to tell his face.
How did I know it was a birthday party? Because I am highly skilled at picking up subtle clues – and because I watched a waiter take a birthday cake over to a gangly and acne’d adolescent who squirmed in his seat looking like he wanted the earth to swallow him up as the whole restaurant sang happy birthday to him. Poor lad, happy birthday.