Sue’s After Dark Diaries – Episode 34

The Weekend Sharon Promised Would Be “Relaxing”

Sharon’s idea of a relaxing weekend away should always be treated with the same caution you’d give a man selling fireworks from the back of a van.

Technically possible.

Historically unsafe.

So when she announced we were going for a girls’ weekend at the seaside in mid-March, I should have declined immediately.

Mid-March at the British seaside is not summer. It’s wind, aggressive seagulls, and an ocean that looks like it’s considering legal action against humanity.

However, Sharon had already invited Karen and Jenny, booked the B&B, and announced the trip in our group chat with so many exclamation marks it looked like an emotional emergency.

Besides, part of me liked the idea.

Fresh air. Sea views. Fish and chips eaten straight from paper while pretending calories dissolve in salt air.

So Friday afternoon, I packed my overnight bag while Benji watched from the bed with the deep suspicion of a dog who believes holidays are a personal betrayal.

Dan sat quietly on the dresser where I’d left him.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I told him. “It’s a girls’ weekend.”

Dan hummed faintly.

Which I chose to interpret as judgment.

Benji blinked slowly, clearly siding with Dan.

Eventually, I grabbed my coat and left them both behind like two tiny, silent critics.

An hour later, we were on the road.

Sharon drove like a woman who believes road signs are more of a suggestion.

Karen clutched her coffee.

Jenny played DJ.

Meanwhile, I stared out the window and wondered, not for the first time, how Sharon’s “simple plans” always ended with someone screaming.

Still, when we reached the seaside town just before sunset, I had to admit it looked charming.

Blinking arcade lights.

The smell of chips.

Wind is trying to remove my eyebrows.

“Smell that,” Sharon said happily.

“That’s sea air.”

“That’s hypothermia,” Karen replied.

Our B&B looked slightly crooked, but enthusiastic about existing.

We dumped our bags.

Then Sharon announced the evening plan.

“Just a quiet drink.”

Which is exactly the sort of sentence that historically ends with karaoke.

Karaoke Nights and Holiday Flirting Rules

The karaoke bar was already loud when we walked in.

Not lively or loud.

Proper loud.

The sort of volume that makes poor decisions feel reasonable.

Sharon ordered cocktails immediately because moderation has never been part of her brand.

Karen announced she would absolutely not sing.

Jenny promised she’d “just have one drink.”

Meanwhile, I sat with my wine and watched the room like a documentary narrator studying mating rituals in the wild.

Within ten minutes, Sharon had befriended the DJ, complimented the bartender, and waved enthusiastically at a table of four blokes across the room.

They waved back.

Of course they did.

Soon they wandered over.

Tom, Dave, Mike, and another Tom.

I’m not sure why there were two Toms, but Sharon seemed thrilled by the statistical opportunity.

Drinks appeared.

Stories began.

Jenny somehow ended up slow dancing with Dave despite meeting him roughly six minutes earlier.

Karen, who had sworn she would never sing, suddenly found herself performing a surprisingly emotional power ballad.

There were hand gestures.

There were dramatic pauses.

At one point, she closed her eyes like a woman remembering past lives.

The room applauded.

Partly because she committed to it.

Mostly because it eventually ended.

Meanwhile, Sharon leaned over to me.

“Holiday rules apply.”

“What rules?” I asked.

“The ones where consequences take the weekend off.”

That should have worried me.

Instead, I accepted another cocktail.

By the time the bar announced last orders, there had been laughter, singing, and at least two cheeky snogs that no one planned to analyse too closely.

Somewhere between the final chorus and the lights coming on, someone suggested meeting the next day at the pier amusements.

“Dodgems,” Tom said.

“Fish and chips,” Jenny added.

“Rides,” Sharon declared.

Everyone agreed this was a brilliant plan.

No one considered the hangover.

Saturday Morning Regret Arrives

Morning arrived like a tax audit.

Karen woke up looking like someone had replaced her blood with regret.

Jenny sat on the edge of the bed holding her head with both hands.

Sharon, meanwhile, was suspiciously cheerful.

“I feel amazing,” she announced.

“You’re not human,” Karen replied.

After coffee, aspirin, and several minutes of quiet contemplation about our life choices, we dragged ourselves outside toward the pier.

The seaside in March is what optimists call “bracing.”

The wind had teeth.

The sea looked cold enough to preserve fossils.

However, the arcades were open and glowing brightly like hopeful casinos.

“Two-p machines first,” Sharon said confidently.

Now, the thing about seaside slot machines is they give you hope.

False hope.

Tiny plastic prizes sit on moving shelves while coins slide endlessly toward the edge like philosophical metaphors.

Jenny lost eight pounds chasing a dolphin keyring.

Karen won a tiny whistle and immediately regretted testing it.

Sharon insisted she had a strategy involving angles and patience.

She did not.

Personally, I won a miniature plastic comb.

Which felt less like a prize and more like a judgment.

At that moment, I briefly considered that if Dan were here, he’d probably be the most reliable member of the group.

At least Dan never spends money chasing a plastic dolphin.

Gradually, the hangovers faded.

The wind softened.

Our confidence returned.

Which was exactly when Sharon spotted the rides.

Fish, Chips, and Seagull Crime

Before approaching anything that spins, we sensibly decided to eat.

Fish and chips by the sea is one of Britain’s greatest traditions.

Hot batter.

Greasy paper.

Vinegar strong enough to remove engine parts.

We sat on a bench overlooking the water while the wind negotiated with our hairstyles.

Unfortunately, the seagulls noticed us immediately.

Now seaside seagulls are not birds.

They are organised crime with feathers.

One landed nearby and stared directly at my chips with the calm confidence of someone who has robbed tourists before.

“Don’t make eye contact,” Karen whispered.

Too late.

The bird swooped.

Jenny screamed.

A chip vanished.

The seagull soared away triumphantly like a tiny airborne criminal.

“Well,” Sharon said calmly, “that felt targeted.”

Jenny looked traumatised.

“I think it knew I was vulnerable.”

We guarded the rest of our food like survivalists protecting emergency rations.

Eventually, the chips were gone, and our dignity partially restored.

That’s when a voice called out.

“Morning!”

We turned.

The karaoke lads were approaching.

Apparently, they remembered the amusement park plan.

Sharon grinned.

“Well,” she said.

“Looks like the day just got interesting.”

Mr Whippy and Growing Confidence

Before tackling the rides, someone suggested ice cream.

Now, eating a Mr Whippy 99 in March is technically madness.

But it’s also tradition.

The ice cream van played the same cheerful tune it has probably played since 1986.

Soon, we were holding towering swirls of vanilla topped with chocolate flakes.

Jenny added raspberry sauce.

Karen added sprinkles.

Sharon added nothing because she dropped hers immediately.

It hit the pavement face-first.

There was a moment of silence.

Then Karen laughed so hard she nearly dropped hers.

Eventually, Sharon obtained a replacement and announced she was emotionally recovered.

Meanwhile, the karaoke lads stood nearby chatting.

Tom pointed toward the pier.

“Dodgems first?”

That sounded harmless enough.

After all, how dangerous could bumper cars possibly be?

The answer, as it turned out, depends entirely on Sharon’s attitude toward driving.

Dodgems: Sharon Chooses Violence

The dodgems began peacefully.

Which lasted roughly eight seconds.

Then Sharon slammed directly into Dave with the enthusiasm of someone settling a personal vendetta.

The impact shook the entire floor.

Dave laughed.

Sharon reversed and hit him again.

“Strategic positioning,” she explained.

Jenny spent most of the ride spinning slowly in circles like a confused satellite.

Karen attempted revenge but collided with a barrier instead.

Meanwhile, the karaoke lads cheered from outside the arena.

“Go on, Sharon!”

She did.

With terrifying commitment.

By the time the music stopped, several vehicles had experienced emotional damage.

Sharon climbed out looking triumphant.

“Next ride.”

That was the moment we should have paused.

Reflected.

Possibly gone home.

Instead, we spotted the log flume.

Which looked harmless.

And therefore obviously wasn’t.

The Log Flume Mistake

The log flume promised a gentle boat ride.

What it delivered was a full aquatic assault.

The climb up the track felt peaceful.

We admired the sea view.

Then came the drop.

Karen screamed like someone had been pushed off a cruise ship.

Water exploded everywhere.

Jenny inhaled half the splash while laughing.

Sharon emerged soaked but victorious.

I sat there dripping and questioning every decision that led to this moment.

The lads applauded from the exit platform.

“Still up for another ride?” Tom asked.

Sharon wiped water from her face and pointed upward.

To the tallest ride on the pier.

The Whirlitza.

Now the Whirlitza is essentially a spinning contraption designed by people who believe dizziness builds character.

“Absolutely not,” Karen said.

Five minutes later, we were sitting in it.

Because apparently our group decision-making process had collapsed entirely.

The Whirlitza Disaster

At first, the ride moved gently.

Slow spinning.

Pleasant views.

Then it sped up.

Karen went pale.

Sharon went green.

Jenny began shouting, “I’ve got to get off!”

Meanwhile, I was coping surprisingly well.

Which is when the wind arrived.

A massive seaside gust caught the hem of my dress and launched it directly over my head.

Suddenly, I couldn’t see.

The ride accelerated.

The world spun.

Sharon laughed like a villain.

Jenny screamed.

The karaoke lads were cheering from below.

There is nothing dignified about spinning at high speed while blinded by your own dress. And when you’re not wearing sensible knickers, you may as well give the entire seaside a guided tour of what you had for breakfast.

Somewhere beside me, Karen appeared to be bargaining with God.

Meanwhile, I was trying to pull my dress down while rotating at the speed of a kitchen blender.

Eventually, the ride slowed.

My dress returned to earth.

And the operator looked mildly concerned.

Recovery and Realisation

When the ride finally stopped, we staggered off like survivors of a maritime disaster.

Karen collapsed onto a bench.

Jenny lay flat, staring at the sky.

Sharon sat down slowly and whispered, “Never again.”

Which is Sharon’s language for “give it ten minutes.”

The karaoke lads approached carefully.

“So,” Tom said.

“Good ride?”

No one answered.

Instead, we sat quietly while our internal organs attempted to renegotiate their positions.

Eventually, Sharon spoke.

“Worth it.”

Karen glared.

“You nearly killed us.”

Sharon shrugged.

“Character building.”

Meanwhile, I grabbed my dress every time the wind moved.

“Trauma response,” I explained.

After a while, the dizziness faded.

The sea glittered.

The pier creaked gently.

And the whole ridiculous day began to feel funny instead of traumatic.

Personally, I decided that next time I wanted this level of excitement, I’d stay home with a glass of wine and Dan.

At least Dan spins responsibly.

Sunset on the Promenade

By evening, we wandered slowly along the promenade.

The wind had calmed.

The arcades glowed.

Karen finally looked human again.

Jenny had stopped threatening to write her will.

Sharon was already discussing cocktails.

Behind us, the karaoke lads waved goodbye before heading toward another bar.

“Nice boys,” Jenny said.

“Very supportive during our near-death experience.”

I looked out across the grey sea and smiled.

The whole day had been ridiculous.

Hangovers.

Dodgems.

Ice cream.

Public humiliation via wind.

And yet somehow it had also been perfect.

Because laughter with friends has a strange way of making even chaos feel like a good idea.

Sharon linked arms with me.

“Same time next year?” she asked.

I thought about it carefully.

Then I said the only sensible thing.

“Absolutely not.”

Which, of course, means we definitely will.

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