EDitorial ± 7-Apr-2003
The Last Resort
Carted the kiddywinks down to sunny (though darn blowy) Felixstowe yesterday pm for a spot of soft play. You know, padded thingies, inflatables, ball pits, you get the picture. Why isn't there anything similar for adults? Kids could sit around reading comics, pausing only to fetch the occasional cold drink for their flustered and heavy-breathing parents. Could catch on.
Brief stop en route at Trimley station, apparently due for demolition shortly after an appeal to have it listed fell on its face. Despite the English bond brickwork, it's an unlovely and seemingly uncared-for building. Extra car parking, here we come.
Changing tack - stay with me here - years ago, I produced several issues of an A4 pamphlet entitled Flavour Of The Month. This was back in the late 1980s, when vigour, wit and youth were on my side. There was a readership of around half-a-dozen friends, at most. They had no choice in the matter: I did some after-hours photocopies at work and sent it to them.
Issue three from August 1988 - the penultimate edition, as it happened - included a page headed:
Battle Of The Resorts: Felixstowe v. VeniceI'd recently been to both places (natch), so a direct comparision seemed fair game. Here's the scanned copy:
If you know Felixstowe, you'll be aware that some of these references (roller skating, go-karts, perhaps even the Owl Art shop) are showing their age. Plus the ice-cream's doubled in price, though that's to be expected over 15 years.
Inevitably the kids wanted to go on the beach afterwards for some ritual rock hurling into the sea. Which reminds me of that old gag about the tribal chief who was presented with a new throne every year, and stored the old ones in a spare room up a ladder. Until one night, due to the weight, the roof collapsed and killed him. The moral being that people who live in grass houses shouldn't stow thrones. Groan.
Be seeing you!