Having said goodbye to my passengers at their hotel, I drove down to the seafront, to St Annes Pier to pay hommage to the statue of a comic genius. Les Dawson came from Lytham St Annes and often used to poke fun at the place in his act.
"I live in Lytham St Annes," he said, "where it's so posh that when we eat cod and chips we wear a yachting cap...my wife is a sex object - every time I ask for sex, she objects."
Like the Eric Morcambe statue, a few miles up the coast in the town of Morecambe, the Les Dawson bronze exudes happiness of a golden age of comedians making people laugh in an uncomplicated way. I saluted him as I drove past.
Returning to the depot I found that the boss had become a celebrity too. Well in a slightly lower key way, having his face splattered across page three of the local paper. It was part of an article about bus companies being booted off bus routes, as part of the spending revue and a slimmed down contract being offered to a charity in the form of a 'community bus'.
The telephone never stopped ringing in the office. This was new found fame.
"Hello. Can I help you?"
"What time does the bus leave for Keswick?"
Perhaps not.
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