Words: Rachel Currie (she/her)
Come winter or summer, everything is everywhere. It’s all right before me. It is bright; so bright.
Pinned to my cork board, there he is. Zoltar Speaks. A ticket from a machine I paid £2 to tell me my fortune, three years ago. His message has faded and yellowed slightly, but the printed scrawl is just about legible.
The tree of life, needs the love of life to grow.
The sight of that creased scrap of paper takes me back to Llandudno pier, to a weekend trip spent sunburnt and stupid with my very best friends. To camping, and to not packing enough jumpers because it was June, it was practically summer, and I had presumed I’d be fine. Shit, my mum was right.
You are a loving person and take time to ensure those around you are looked after.
We all got matching bracelets, I think mine was green. I haven’t seen it in a while. In fact, I’m fairly sure Zoltar is the last tangible memory I have from that short, blissful trip.
The Welsh sea was freezing cold, of course. Just two of us got in. At the sight of our paled expressions and frantic assertions that the water was ‘just fine,’ everyone else chickened out.
‘Watch out for the crabs,’ my friend warned me, watching impassively on from the shore.
‘Crabs?’ I shrieked. ‘What crabs?’
I scratched my legs on the rickety pier as I frantically scrambled up, up, out to safety. It stung, sharp electric zigzags pinging down the back of my thighs, as I lay down to sleep on the airbed, slowly descending.
Come the autumn, the leaves of the tree fall, making it look sad. Some people have that seasonal sadness too, but your great joy fills a room with sunshine and makes the sadness disappear.
I love the beach. Mr Whippy never tastes as satisfying as it does with the wind whipping your face, several strands of your hair all sticky and gross. Salt dances on my tongue, teasing me. My linen trousers fly up, up and away. My arms and legs self-exfoliate as soon as I get within five metres of the sand. There’s nothing like it.
The arcades are noisy, they’re overstimulating. Vivid reds and blues and greens. DING DING DING! Will I win on the claw machine? I don’t think it’s possible to. It’s a lie fabricated by the government; it has to be. But that pink, strawberry-scented bear is eyeing me yearningly. She is tragically, desperately lonely. She wants to live at home with me. I have to try to save her from her plastic rapture, I simply must. It’s all a part of the experience.
People will bring great joy to you and a close friend will happily surprise you with their news.
Much like Llandudno, I love Blackpool. It is a living nightmare of vibrant, unnatural “illusions” which haunt the landscape. A vast red scope of promenade which I’ve happily trotted down with my dog so many times. I take his lead off as soon as we reach the sand and he runs like you’ve never seen. One murky nine kilogram apparition in the distance racing away, away. A mirage. Before I know it he is back, by my side, looking at me expectantly.
Blackpool pier is a big one for me. The donuts are simply to die for. They’re the perfect temperature of beige nonsense, the crunchy sugar crusts my lips for hours. They’re a doughy delight, and my favourite food.
June is a lucky month.
Beach food is absolutely the best. If you’re not fighting with seagulls to eat your tea, what are you doing? (One did actually land on my head a couple of years ago in Llandudno). (I ran away, thankfully). (My mum didn’t help, she left me to fend for myself).
And the chips! Oh, the chips. They taste like freedom and happiness incarnate. A plastic tub of goodness. A delicious vinegary mess which stains and irreparably damages my favourite white t-shirt. It’s all a part of the experience.
The GREAT ZOLTAR is here to guide and has more wise words waiting for you.
I actually avoid the rides because I’m afraid of everything, but I like the sounds of children screeching in delight and terror as they loop round and round. I stand distinctly back with all the mums and dads, just enjoying that fresh, chilly, irritating sensation of it all. I cautiously watch the floorboards beneath me chip and fray with the weight of those monstrous contraptions which hold their hapless victims.
PLAY AGAIN!
The beach is like nothing else. It is an incomparable mass of cheap experiences I’ll never forget. Come winter or summer, everything is everywhere. It’s all right before me. It is bright; so bright. The sun hurts my eyes.
Your Lucky Numbers: 30, 31, 44, 48, 55, 56.
