As temperatures here on the UK's Costa Cutter soared into the 90s yesterday, I decided it would be a splendid opportunity to check out how the tourist trade was coming along. So it was on with the leathers and onto the old throbber for a quick thrash around the island.
First stop Ramsgate, and as befits Kent's premier Monte Carlo style resort the place was heaving. Versace wearing, Ferrari driving millionaires were parked up along the marina, sipping lattes and nibbling ciabattas outside the continental cafes on Harbour Parade. It might have been the croissette, if it wasn't for the knackered old jets taking off from RAF London Kent Ramsgate Manston International Airport every ten minutes.
Next Boredstares, and despite the strange moustachioed men in Victorian bathing costumes giving some of the young middle class mums cause for concern, the joint was jumping. The experiment in converting the wibbly-wobbly jetty into a new beach is coming along a treat too. The sand now obscures all those boring white lines in the car park, so I was forced to place my gleaming machine on top of a Sharan load of chip munching nippers that had hogged the bike bay.
Then Margate. The unmistakeable smell so beloved by Ronnie Biggs was in evidence, but even I will admit that the front was packed. Albeit mainly with second generation unemployables wheeling the third generation along in pushchairs.
I pushed on to God's Waiting Room, Westgate, but as advertised the place was dead. Or at least heavily sedated. Not for nothing is the mini golf course on Westbrook front called Strokes.