If it's Tuesday

As part of the new national sport of shivying people around there is clearly a need for signs. We haven't quite got to the "Fat Controller is watching you" stage but it can only be a matter of time. There are plenty of keep your distance stickers now fading on the pavements, and shops still have their little arrows for one-way shopping (it never caught on, people forget stuff go back and around, it's only natural; I made a point of going the wrong way round every shop; no-one said anything...) Anyhow here's a really useful sign that informs the unwary that the market on Tuesdays will be held on the Tuesday Market place (gosh! really?); what it doesn't say is that the market has been held there since at least since the days of good King Henry (he of the six wives) and a silly little fakedemic ain't gonna change nothing... It all makes work for the working man to do.

Actually in Tuesday Market Place there are some new-to-me seats celebrating local entrepreneur and thrice Lord Mayor of Lynn, Frederick Savage. I think they may have umbrella shades in them when the sun shines. I tried it for comfort and I'd say about a 7 out of 10.

Here again is the Duke's Head and St Nick's chapel poking up in the back.

And finally because I'll probably never get another chance to post it is a picture of some street signs.

As idle as a painted ship

Here's an old barge marooned in the silt of the Boal Quay which has attracted the attentions of local painters and decorators and become really quite colourful, almost as colourful as the character it is named after, Tosca. A little research, like a little learning, is a dangerous thing so for what it's worth I can say that this area was a loop of the river Nar which emptied into the Great Ouse at the far end; changes to sluices and other works mean that it no longer flows around here hence the silting and 'nature' moving in. Some tidal water does reach in giving councils the excuse to erect signs warning of danger but it wasn't that that stopped me from going further to explore, no sir, it was inadequate footwear, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Tosca is apparently not the only boat lost in this gloopy greenery, a local historical site informs of others lost over time in the mire.

... and those menacing clouds duly emptied themselves on our heads soon after making us seek cover.

Triple tattoosies

On the first Sunday of Operation Domestic Internment I thought that, for want of anything better, some tattoo parlours might fill the gap until tomorrow. Above from Hunstanton has a fine pun and skull. Below from King's Lynn is just showing off but somehow does not overcome the sleaze, I mean a red door off a side street off London Road... definitely as it should be done.

And finally who has the bad luck to open up just days before the current outbreak of stupidity? Good job he hadn't got too settled in. But "Angry Badger"?  What's that all about? This one is just down the road in Hull and was the site of the short lived "Killer Kitchens" enterprise ("Kitchens to die for at slashed prices"!) ... some might say places have a doom on them.

Yet More Driffield Amusements

Driffield, let's be honest, is not a big place. A visitor would be stretched to say it had more than one street, named rather sweetly as Middle Street. Now Middle Street is not to be mocked; it is long enough to have two halves: Middle Street North and Middle Street South. But the visitor need not worry about such quaintness, Driff has one street and most everything is on it. So let us just say that we are at the southern end of the strip and here's the Butcher's Dog, which I assume is a public house of some sort. I post only because I think the sign writing is superb ... I don't go in pubs these days, haven't for years. I'm told that now you can't smoke in them they reek of farts, sweat and stale beer ... delightful!

But what is that piano keyboard peeking out on the left? Why it's nothing less than a singing barber ...

Now this has three of my pet hates all in one window: Hallowe'en (boring commercialised Yankee reimport of a Scottish export), the Beatles (vastly overrated crud) and Elvis (just plain emetic yuck from the get go!). So well done  them! Barbers, with or without singers,  I also haven't been in since even longer than pubs. 

... do not sound a trumpet before you ...

If one could earn even ten pounds a week at begging, it would become a respectable profession immediately. A beggar, looked at realistically, is simply a businessman, getting his living, like other businessmen, in the way that comes to hand. He has not, more than most modern people, sold his honour; he has merely made the mistake of choosing a trade at which it is impossible to grow rich.

 George Orwell

"Do not feed the troll" is the lesson instilled in every child from the first gift of the internet at whatever early age is thought suitable these days... to which has now been added the age old edict "Do not give to the beggar" the mot du jour of the local Council. Your left hand seems to have discovered that your right hand has been doing good works to those deemed to be living an "at risk" lifestyle and your left hand is most unhappy. Your spare change might be helping buy that guy's next fix of whatever nice chemical he chooses to escape from the drudge of living in the city of culture, your scruffy little beggar may well be in fact a con artist (who isn't these days? Is it not written that all will be fake and all manner of things shall be fake...) with a nice flat paid for by housing benefit; your beggar is a smack head, a spiced out zombie, the scum of the earth, a drag on the social budget, a filthy stinking rotten nuisance ... that is your beggar so don't you go giving the beggar your precious pennies. No, give it instead to a Council approved list of charities who will see to it that your money goes to all the right places, the acceptable places, the 'deserving' places, ... all of course via the charities' very reasonable expense accounts, they have to live after all, they have rent to pay, managers to pay, they aren't a charity ... erm ... and somewhat like Orwell I see little difference between the beggars on  Jameson Street and Whitefriargate and the charities set up to do "good works": they just cut out the middle man. 

And I won't lie; I don't give to either.

The place to be is Withernsea

If you haven't been to Withernsea then all I can say is that you haven't lived. With its balmy sandy beaches and inviting blue waters Withernsea is the seaside resort without parallel. The posters below on Whitefriargate last year gave only the merest hint of the pleasures that await you on the sunny Yorkshire coast. Just half an hour's driving on delightful roads due east of the city of culture will bring you to this very special place.

OK it's a bit of dead end, run down resort that used to have a lot of visitors until the railway was removed. Now there's still a beach, a handful of shops and a lighthouse that was carefully placed so far inland that the eroding waves could never reach it. I went there once, it rained.

Sign something simple

You can't have a year long bean fest without some promotion and as with all advertising the less you mention the product the better. Whoever was paid a no doubt substantial fee to come up with these instantly forgettable catch lines has learnt that lesson well... Here's a couple of the many enigmatic messages festooning the town.  When I'm bored I might post some more.