My toasted tea cake arrived warm and with a portion of butter served on a small round dish with a heavily air-brushed photograph of Charles and Diana on it. I can see the screws through the warm red and white painted wood panelling on the walls and periodically hear the Countdown buzzer noise coming from a TV somewhere towards the back of the building.
The people in Morecambe seem to be either very young or very old, with no in-between group. There’s a lot of missing teeth and an abundance of sportswear. Plenty of Reebok footwear.
The grey-haired man at the table next to me is discussing the recent infection of his “wedding tackle” which he went to the medical assessment ward of the local hospital to have treated. There is only one ambulance in Morecambe, I have learned. And it hurts like a bugger to wee when the epididymis is inflamed.