Saturday night, Blackpool Tower.
Stepping through the doors of the local ‘palais’, with its glittering chandeliers, fountains and inviting expanse of polished floor, into a more romantic world.
Equipped with tin hat and gas mask, I flock to dance halls, doubling as air-raid shelters, for wartime dances:
Alpha, Bravo, Foxtrot.
Everyone's here to show off their acrobatic moves, and throw their partners into the air, often flashing their underwear.
The sound of explosion outside in the street will not change us inside.
‘Carry on, boys, keep playing,’ says the band leader, as I brush plaster and brick dust from my clothes and face.