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Wurlitzer Only when Practicable

 


    'After sound check, you have a query out front,' said stage management. I was hosting Showzam in the Blackpool Tower Ballroom. 'Her over there. She's been too difficult even for the circus archivists.'

 A woman with a waved combover, in a sequined puffa jacket, nylon culottes and pink trainers. Wafting Lily of the Valley and carbolic. 

  'You may have seen my quick step earlier to the Wurlitzer.'  Her tone was no-crap librarian.  'Every Wednesday I've danced here since before even my mother passed on. To the Wurlitzer only when practicable.'  She spiralled a wrist at me.   'And I've got my three expected carrier bags.  In this first one: Happy Shopper vodka. Not paying your bar prices. In two - shrimp that were Morecambe-bought, home-self-potted. In three - glad rags. So, I'll thank you to tell me your band's set list. Then I'll decide if or not I'm staying.' 

  I told her.

  She nodded. I watched her step high to the edge of the dance floor.  She pushed and pulled puffa and culottes as you would a towel to change on the beach.  She emerged in dove grey tulle, silver court shoes and diamante head band, then sat, shoulders back, weight forward on her toes.  In her now softened, child-wide, bright eyes I saw reflected all of Blackpool for all of her. 

  During the opening number pictured above, I caught her eye. Grinning, she toasted me with the cup from a vacuum flask. 

  Kinship between two old hoofers that didn't scrub up too shabbily. 

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