Skeggie

I eventually arrive in Skegness at dusk with no idea where I might be laying my head. It's fine, I just want somewhere that can accommodate Jimmy's electrical needs. Perhaps a campsite. I turn into a great sprawling affair which looks dead. The bar looks even deader but it does have one lone guy perched amongst it. Eight-thirty p.m, one landlord, biggest pub I've ever seen, not a soul in site - almost eerie.

He can't help me. He looks like he wants to but is concerned about the cabling tripping people up and whatnot. I'm tired and not in the mood for giving it the big one so make my excuses and leave. Back on the road a sign winks at me - The North Shore Hotel and Golf Club, they must have leckie. I roll around to the back carpark and sure enough, there are buggies with needs similar to my own. I follow a long group of cables to the holy grail and then hot foot it inside to seal the deal. Sadly the receptionist has no interest in chocolate and seems, at best, polite about my adventure. She relents in the end and lets me plug in in the pro-golfer's spot...as long as I'm out of there by 7am.

I sleep fitfully in my sprawling, expensive bed and rush out in my pjs the next morning to find Jimmy surrounded my shiny brown legged golfers wearing bemused expressions. They couldn't care less about our adventures either but are much more concerned about how to navigate round Jimmy's bumper to get their Diet Cokes out of the machine. I reposition him in as shady a corner as possible then dive back into bed.

Later we hit the promenade and find nowhere to park up at all. I attempt an ice cream slinging ruse in the Morrison's carpark when I stop to buy milk. The manager's having none of it and charges out to, very politely, lambast me. What a shame you can't just pull up where you fancy - the place is teeming with people who could all, surely, do with a nice chocolate ice cream. Actually, most of them look like they could do with some greens inside them - everywhere I look is sallow flesh and people on mobility aids, all pulled towards the magnetic field of Morrison's. I might have a touch of the Rice Krispie face about me too if I shopped here regularly - there's something about the place that kind of goads me to gorge on. There must be a crap food pheromone that comes for you and makes all the foil packaging rustle suggestively. I always end up buying a packet of really nasty biscuits or cakes. I can't help it, it just seems so right at the time.

I take my leave before I relent and cruise through the heat smeared streets, finally parking up at a quiet end of the beach to try and make some sales to get me onto Grimsby and the eveing's supper destination.