The thing about living on the Fylde coast is you’re never short of an odd happening or two.
Admittedly most of those I’ve come across over the years have been in and around the centre of Blackpool well past the witching hour (and plenty of those have been of the unsavoury variety).
But at least it’s not a dull place to be, unlike, say Croydon - which was handed such a tag by the French rugby team this week.
I’ve been to Croydon and I must say other than the meat-sweats brought on by an all you can eat Brazilian barbecue restaurant I really can’t remember much.
It is, of course, not alone in that instantly forgettable camp although I’ll admit when you’ve spent your whole working life in the shadow of the Tower the bar is set pretty high.
Of course the people of Dull in Scotland (twined with Boring, Oregon and hoping soon to link up with Bland, Australia) have attempted to corner the market in such matters.
But I’m afraid the name alone, not to mention those globe-trotting dignitaries makes the place far too interesting to claim the crown after which they hanker.
As for life here on the Fylde coast - well, you can’t even go to feed the ducks without a bit of drama.
The Stocks clan were dispatched last weekend to the duck pond in Cleveleys armed with half a bag of week-old Warburtons.
As they went about the business of feeding and chasing the wildfowl (in equal measure while I kept the excited Spaniel at a safe distance) the idylic scene was spoiled by the arrival of two chaps and two young lads who were both carrying large boxes.
The younger pair hopped the fence, opened the boxes, deposited two rather large ducks and then walked away as if such actions were perfectly normal.
I’m not suggesting there was any crime committed - you can insert your own joke about fly tipping if you wish - but it just seemed an odd thing to happen on a Sunday afternoon.
As I said, life on the Fylde coast, it’s quackers.