You may recall that I was going on last week about being the type of person who needs to organise the world into neatly labelled file boxes. My excuse for a brain likes to link B to C and then place them in their rightful position between A and D. If George Orwell had been writing about me in 1984, my Room 101 would have been the kind of student house The Lad lived in last year, where cast-off objects littered each room like some ever-palpable dandruff (he seems to have undergone a sea-change this year but that is another story). However, as with many annoyingly organised people, I like to occasionally walk on the dark side. Like a vicar surrepticously entering a strip-club, I like to abandon my ordered faith and see where my fancy takes me. This will be such a week. Who knows where my posts will take me by the time Friday comes around, certainly not me. If you would like to jump on board and join me in this mystery trip, please be my guest.
I am starting at the Butlins Holiday Camp in Skegness, England in 1938. Normally there would be a reason for starting there, but remember, this week we have left rationality in the cloakroom. I know it is Skegness in 1938 because the picture was taken by Uncle Frank and we all know how he loved to catalogue all his photographs ("Frank Fieldhouse, I renounce thee, you shameless organiser") I know it is Bultins because it says so just above Auntie Miriam's head. Now if I was a logical and organised person, I would go on about how the British Holiday Camp movement was started by Sir Billy Butlin when he opened this very camp in Skegness just two years before the photograph was taken. But the dangerous, irrational, unorganised me has no time for such trimmings. Just look at the photograph and let your mind go where you want it to. And call back tomorrow to see where mine has gone to.