Waterworld...

We should have known, when we set off at noon in almost total darkness, that by the time we got to Scarborough it would be raining heavily. But the alternative would just have been sitting around the house, so, even though our jeans will be hanging on radiators overnight, we did the right thing. The surfers were out in force at the South Bay, the foolhardy wave-seeking souls, and lots of strange men in nothing more than their penis-hugging Speedos, no doubt attempting to show they were loaded with testosterone, just dipping their toes in the edge of the sea. We did the usual seaside stuff - gave several amusement arcades some of our money, bought some rock and donuts and ate fish and chips at a gloriously downmarket cafe. The cutlery in our establishment of choice - which, like a microcosm of the seaside town outside, was packed with Geordies, which may or may not have had something to do with the pay-in-advance policy in operation - left a little to be desired. It was so thin we thought it had come from Uri Geller's props cupboard (my, how we laughed at the lightness of the teaspoons). And once my 'large' fish arrived, our fears over the cutlery were justified, as my fork buckled the instant it came into contact with the batter.
Those that seek reviews of public conveniences before they visit towns and cities in this isle of ours might want to avoid those close to Peasholme Park and the swimming baths, which were quite possibly the smelliest toilets I have ever had the dubious pleasure of using. I certainly won't be back kite flying.

Reading: Sayo Masuda - Autobiography of a Geisha