Time travel...

Whilst in Bridlington yesterday I noticed, for the first time, that there is a disturbingly old-fashioned shop located on the town's Promenade. Ladies fashion emporium Ernest Whiteley & Co was, apparently, established here in 1901. But despite my countless visits to this East Coast seaside town, I'd never noticed the place. 'Fashion', I hasten to add, is used in the loosest possible sense as there is nothing remotely fashionable about the garments that fill the windows of this complete anachronism. When you walk past and glance inside it feels as if you've discovered that interruption in the space-time continuum you've been looking for all your life. Who buys this stuff? How can it possibly remain in business in these tough times? Well done, Ernest Whiteley & Co, for thriving and surviving for so long. My new favourite newspaper, the Daily Telegraph, may have found the reason why Whiteley's remain in operation - bra fittings. Read more about such matters and what Brid's like in the rainy season in Stephen McClarence's feature here. Writing over two years ago, the author suggests that Whiteley's is a "cosy refuge on an out-of-season day on the East Yorkshire coast — particularly for the more mature customer." Wot, no hoodies?

Seaside special...

We went to Bridlington. Well, what else are you gonna do when the sun is shining and you have a small amount of fuel in the car? We had the award-winning south beach pretty much to ourselves, although the chill wind prevented us from donning Speedos and knotted hankies. Such is the British way that the town was full of elderly folk on those annoying mobility vehicles and, generally, overweight and aesthetically challenged families. We ate chips and ice creams amid the seagulls and M tried - but failed - to win Finn a plush Thomas The Tank from a grabber machine. Apparently, there's an arts festival (BAF - I'm sure you can work out where this acronym is coming from) going on in the town right now but we couldn't find any sign of it, other than a big banner announcing its presence. Maybe that was the art.

Salty sea dogs...

I am in Leeds, staring at the screen and looking forward to tonight's Hell's Kitchen finale. I have just penned my "official" On A Shout blog, which was a joy and kept me entertained in between manipulating images in Photoshop. In Hull I note that we have some new blogging competition - the HDM's Jane Harper is on-board a clipper (which is, to all intents and purposes, a yacht in all-but name, that name being a clipper) sailing from somewhere to somewhere else. Jane is, apparently, going to post lots of blog entries whilst hanging on to the clipper as if her life depended on it which, in many if not all ways, it does. No comment facility, which is rather disappointing for a blog, but Jane does chat away in a very pleasant conversational tone: "Whatever happens, at least it’ll give me a fresh batch of stories to tell in the pub. So it’s here where we start all the good bits, and bad bits, and bits we hadn’t even thought to expect.The clock is ticking and it’s time to set out into the unknown. Bring it on." Bring it on, of course, being street slang for needing the toilet and can I please get off the clipper now, please? I shuddered when I read that they are setting out into the unknown. Hasn't anyone thought to take a map and charts? Is there no radar equipment on board? Are there lands as yet uncharted that Jane plans to discover? The unknown? Does she mean Bransholme? No doubt, like me old sensible mucker David Clensy, Jane will turn her antics into a riveting book with pictures courtesy of the newspaper at the earliest opportunity and make herself a few quid to compensate for the sea-sickness (and here's me thinking I was hard done by the time they tried to ship me off to a district office on the east coast!).
Do excuse me, I have a train to catch. More tomorrow in the aftermath of Barry's victory!

Oh I do like to be beside....

...the seaside. So we wound up in the east coast town of Hornsea. Less of a resort, more of a retirement home for people with Scottish Terriers. The hot weather brought people in search of a quick fix of fish 'n' chips 'n' ice cream 'n' five donuts for £1, including us. My grandmother used to live here so when I was a lad I was a regular visitor and suffered the most boring weekends as a result. The promenade might be a shade nicer these days but, on the whole, the place has hardly changed. One winter I seem to recall half of Hornsea blowing down in a big storm and it was never rebuilt. And gran's bungalow has long-since disappeared into the sea. I once ran along the sea front here, dashed into the gents, skidded on the wet floor, fell over and rolled into a urinal trough. Happy days. We almost opted to live here a couple of years ago although I don't think that either of us would have stood it for more than the two hours we were there today. Ate nice chips, donuts and ice cream then walked through Hall Garth Park, where, the signage reminds, you're not allowed to let your cars and motorcycles, never mind your horses, ponies and dogs, foul.