Southport. An hour’s drive from Blackpool.
First stop a full English. Alarm bells should have rung when the cook delved into the deep freeze and extracted four. I daren’t hazard a guess at the constituents of these specimens. Scrapings from the butcher’s apron come to mind; doubt a butcher had been anywhere near. Inedible!
A good day mooching in Southport; evening gig at the theatre followed by a few beers; a comfortable guest house for b&b.
My second full English in 24 hours and there it is again. Lurking between the fried egg and baked beans. One bite and the remainder has to be smuggled away in a napkin, ruining the makings of an otherwise good breakfast.
I’m off sausages.