LIFE has been really exciting in Lancaster and Morecambe over the last year or so, at least for the readers of another local paper. For those not privileged to read the journal in question, I should explain that we have been subjected to dramatic crises every week for ages now.

The fact that no one has noticed doesn't mean that the situation hasn't been exceptionally serious, although it hasn't.

I mean, who would ever have thought that the district could lurch from one ghastly predicament to another on a regular basis for over twelve months and still survive. It speaks wonders for the toughness of local residents that any of us should still be here living penniless in what must by now be a radioactive wasteland on the edge of Morecambe Bay.

I can't imagine how we've managed. Well, actually I can. It's all down to Hilton Dawson in the finest tradition of the Superman serials we used to see at the cinema on a Saturday morning.

For example, in his latest exploit, it seems that he bounded from his telephone box, faster than a speeding snail, in order to solve the great vanishing museum mystery with a wave of his hand and a lump of kryptonite. Brilliant. The fact that the museum wasn't vanishing in the first place detracts not at all from his superhuman achievement.

Pretty soon he'll be telling us how he saved the Garstang sausage from extinction and prevented Morecambe from sliding into the Bay.

After that I expect to see him wearing his underpants outside his trousers.

Mike Ford

Silverdale

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