#but they got scared off when both me and our organist came out in the same year

[unbidden-yidden]

I may regret asking this, but I have an interdenominational, interfaith question about the literalness of the Bible for folks who are familiar with the doctrine of the more conservative denominations of Christianity.

So in the more traditional branches of Judaism, it is generally held that the Torah was given to Moses on Mt. Sinai, word-for-word. However, the other two sections of the Tanakh are not literally the Word of God, but rather the words of the prophets and important sacred writings (poems, histories, etc.) Now, obviously there is a spectrum of beliefs and more liberal Jews will attribute the five books of Moses to more earthly sources, while still holding them as very sacred. However, even the strictest of orthodox Jews still interpret the Torah and base their understanding of halacha on the Talmud and commentaries. Bottom line: in Judaism, the absolute *most* amount of sacred texts that form the Hebrew Bible that are attributable to God as God's direct words are the books of Torah, which are still interpreted by human beings to be able to be put into practice.

However, I have come across an alarming amount of Christians who say they take the [whole?] Bible literally. I genuinely don't understand what is meant by this, as only the first five books were ever attributed to God as direct revelation, and so even if you assume that the New Testament is also 100% verbatim word-of-God revelation (which I don't know for certain if these Christians do assume that) you're still missing the vast chunk of the Prophets and Writings from the Old Testament.

So I guess my questions are: When Christians say they 'take the [whole] Bible literally,' what do they actually mean by this in practice, since even the Hebrew Bible (never mind the whole Christian Bible) has tons of apparent contradictions that can only be resolved through interpretation? Is this actually common and/or historical doctrine? Or is this American Christianity being bizarre, especially in the last 50 years?

Do Christians who hold by this concept make a distinction between the books of Torah and the rest of the Bible? If not, how do they get around the fact that the other books were not verbatim revelation?

#christianity #judaism #like #I was raised Christian #but not like that lol #my church growing up was the equivalent of a Reform shul #well #more like a Reform/Conservative Midwestern hybrid shul #you get the idea #we had a couple whackjobs who thought the world was created in 7 literal days #but they got scared off when both me and our organist came out in the same year #and the pastors and majority of the congregation supported us wholeheartedly #that and they switched to using gender neutral language for God #Anyway #suffice to say I was not having that particular kind of indoctrination directly fed to me at church #it didn't make sense to me then and makes even less sense now #every hour is theology hour around here apparently

[asktheghosthost]

The winter of 1969...

There came a knock at the attic door, and all three brides--Priscilla, Emily, and Constance--looked up from what they were doing. (Needle point, reading, and solitaire, respectively.) The trio of women glanced at one another in silent debate. It was finally the eldest, Priscilla, who got up to answer it.

Priscilla was one of the key reasons people feared the attic. With her gaunt, skeletal form, she looked more corpse than spirit. Emily and Constance had yet to make their appearances public, at least on the guest tours.

"If it isn't my favorite bevy of brides! Good evening, ladies," Dorian Gracey greeted. "May I come in?"

Priscilla turned to the others. They shrugged, so she stepped aside.

"Thank you, m'dear." He slipped in, giving a grateful bob of his head as he did so.

Over the last few months since the Haunted Mansion's opening, the young master of the house was slowly becoming less of an enigma. It was no secret he wasn't overly fond of the mortals "traipsing about his ancestral home," but he was becoming used to the idea. He'd appointed himself an ambassador, not only around the Mansion, but with the other denizens of Disneyland as well.

Emily stood up, putting aside her novel. "What brings you here, Master Gracey?"

"Dorian, please," he corrected with a smile. Then he reached into his jacket, pulled out some envelopes, and began to hand them out. "I'm inviting everyone to The Haunted Mansion's first Solstice Shindig! I know it's been a rough start these last few months, putting on a show for people, sharing a home with so... so many ... complete, utter strangers, and... ugh. Anyway! I thought this would be a great way to get to know one another. We'll have party games, dancing, story telling..."

Trailing off, he watched Constance, who was reading her invitation with a frown.

"I'm... I'm actually wanted?" she asked. She knew her reputation around the house. Most had heard of her murderous past, or caught the whispers of hearsay. The Ghost Host was adamant she not be visible to guests, and she was to be on her best behavior, lest she be given the boot.

"Of course, m'dear. You're a member of this household, after all." His smile twitched. "Um, I wasn't sure about them, though..." He gestured to a quintet of wedding photos, all of which were of her and her various grooms. "I mean, I wasn't sure if they're actually here, or if those are just photographs..."

A groom turned his face to look at him.

"Oh, hi." Dorian waggled a finger gun at him and clicked his tongue. "How's it going?"

As the other two brides giggled and started planning their night, Constance sat back down on her trunk, staring at the invitation, chin in her hand, and debated going.

She didn't like leaving the attic, cramped as it was; too much judgment to be found downstairs. She got along well enough with the other two women, she supposed. If anything, there was a quiet tolerance, but there wasn't a strong sense of friendship. Maybe she would have fun, and make a friend or two.

A new year to make a new start.

One of her former husbands was sticking his tongue out at her. She put his picture face down.

***

The ballroom was full of ghosts laughing and dancing and conversing. No one was talking to her, though, but she'd expected that. So she sat at the table, empty seats on either side of her. There weren't many spirits like her in the mansion, none with such a checkered past, save for maybe Bluebeard and Captain Gore. No one had ever seen them, however, and she wouldn't engage women-hating pirates in a conversation, anyway.

She gazed down into her glass of punch, still not drinking any after twenty minutes of holding it. A piece of lemon was bobbing on the surface, like a dismembered appendage in a pool of blood...

See, this is why no one talks to you! Psychopath!

She shook her head, mind made up she'd retire early, when someone plopped down next to her. Constance turned to see big, blue eyes, and an even bigger smile. They were framed by loosely wound buns, one on each side of the woman's oval face and one on top of her head. An... interesting hairstyle, to say the least.

"Hi! I haven't seen you around." She held out a gloved hand to shake. Constance hesitantly took it. Her grip was stronger than it seemed.

"I'm Sarah Slater, but everyone calls me Sally."

"Constance... Hatchaway."

"Nice to meet you, Miss Hatchaway!'

"You can... You can call me Connie." Her cheeks burned. No one called her "Connie." She'd never once suggested it before. Maybe it was Sally's melodic southern twang, or that pretty smile, but she wanted this conversation to keep going. "I stay up in the attic. With the other brides." She ventured a sip of her punch. It wasn't bad.

"Oh. I know how that is. I'm in the portrait gallery, the little round one..." She deepened her voice. "With no windows and no doors, ha ha ha!" In her normal voice, she added, "I'm usually..." She struck a pose, lips tight, eyelids drooped, and hands held as if she clutched something, (a parasol, Constance quickly realized). "All day, in my painting. Just me and Nathaniel."

Constance tried to hide the twinge of disappointment she suddenly felt. "Nathaniel?"

"He's my pet alligator. I didn't bring him tonight. Scares the others too much."

Constance let out a tiny sigh of relief. "They're just cowards. Not everyone can have a dog, you know."

Sally giggled at that. "And especially not a dog that ate them. He didn't mean it, though. I shouldn't have set up that flimsy rope over his pond."

Chatter and cheers caused both women to turn and look at the center of the ballroom. There stood Dorian with a spotlight shining on him. On top of his head, he was balancing a pyramid of three full martini glasses. A row of a half-dozen lined each arm from shoulder to wrist, and he was trying to sip out of one while not spilling any of the others.

Sally rolled her eyes. "To think I was once engaged to that."

"Ew," Constance teased. "Why?"

Sally gave her shoulder a playful push with her fingertips. "It was this... sham thing we agreed upon, to keep our families from bothering us. You know how it was back then."

Constance nodded. Forced courtships, arranged marriages, not knowing what kind of man your husband was until the honeymoon... It was part and parcel to being a woman, especially in those days. She tried not to ponder how much the mortal world had changed since her death. Maybe if she were alive now, she wouldn't have done what she did...

"He's a sweetheart, really," Sally continued.

They were interrupted by applause and saw that not only had he finished his drink, he was going to try to down the others.

"But lordy is he an idiot." The two shared a laugh at that.

Suddenly, the spotlight-- its origins still supernatural and unknown-- was on Sally.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," the Ghost Host's voice flowed through the ballroom, "our own bewitching ballerina, Miss Sally Slater, will dazzle us with a dance from 'The Nutcracker Suite.'"

"Oop, I'm up." Sally sprang from her chair. "Wish me luck, darlin'!"

Constance gave a tiny wave. "Break a leg."

The music started, courtesy of the graveyard minstrels and the organist. Sally was practically glowing, not only from the reflections of sparkling tinsel and candles, but an inner joy that poured outward from her as she twirled and leapt and twisted.

Being what and who they were, it was still a macabre presentation, but an eerily beautiful one. Her torso, which had been separated from her hips at death, spun independently, so her top half went clockwise while her legs went counter. Arms could spin all the way around at the shoulder, as if she really were a windup toy princess.

Constance didn't want to take her eyes off her. It was the most gorgeous display she'd ever seen.

Gorgeous... Dismembered parts. What is wrong with you?!

Shoving herself up out of her chair, she excused herself and bolted past the applauding ghosts. She didn't catch the whispered, "Connie?" as she raced past the bowing Sally.

Tears blurred her vision. Not knowing where she was going, she went down one hall and then the next.

"Constance!"

Ignore it. Keep going.

When she finally stopped, she found herself surrounded by towering, wooden walls. And above...

Above was that mesmerizing ballerina, her face solemn as she held her parasol aloft.

She's a princess. And I'm a monster.

"Connie!"

Constance turned to see Sally come through the wall towards her. She froze, too ashamed to run.

"What happened?" Sally put a hand on her arm. "You took off like you had a wasp in your veil."

Shaking her head, Constance struggled to say something coherent. Her thoughts were racing. "I'm... I'm not... You're--"

Sally's eyes locked onto hers. "Just breathe, darlin'."

"I don't belong here!"

"What? Now why on earth would you say that?"

"I don't! I-- I'm a monster! I murdered men, and you... you're a graceful, innocent... beautiful woman. They won't even trust me to be part of the tours."

Sally blinked, but only paused for a beat to digest this. "Well, you wouldn't hurt anyone now, would you?"

"No. I mean, why would I? I'm dead. I can't buy anything anymore. I can't get married anymore. My collection is nice to look at, but all it can do is collect dust."

Sally took Constance's hands in hers. "We can't change our pasts, we can only fix the now to make a better future. And call me sentimental, but I think we're all here in this weird, creepy place for a reason. You'll get your chance to prove yourself."

"I wish I could do that now."

At that moment, Sally happened to catch a sprig of green above them. Dangling from a gargoyle sconce's foot was mistletoe. She blushed and started to giggle, causing Constance to roll her eyes upwards to see it, too.

Her own face tinted pink, she quickly kissed Sally's cheek.

"If that was, um, unwanted, I'm... I probably shouldn't have--"

She was interrupted with a soft kiss on the lips. Wrapping their arms around one around, they held each other in the deepening kiss, not caring about the party continuing without them.

This would be a new beginning after all.

#drabble #fan fic #short story #sally #Constance

[angielou7]

My Father’s Demons

The drive home from the airport was a stark difference in comparison to the drive there. The silence that had dared us to defy it had boarded that airplane with my father. Now, my mother, baby sister and I were on our way home. WITHOUT HIM! Silence no longer ruled in our realm. The windows were down, the radio was blaring southern gospel music and my mama was singing along. She let me sit up front and I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was so beautiful. I can close my eyes to this day and see her as though there is a polaroid in the forefront of my mind. Her hair with its rich Cherokee heritage was untamed by the wind’s embrace. Her dark, freckle sprayed complexion could make the mythical Aphrodite mad with envy. And those eyes, so warm with love and affection for her children, for my sister, for me. She would look over at me from time to time as though every word she was singing was just for me and I knew that it was. When she turned the radio down my stomach twisted inside me. I knew she wanted to talk about events that I had been witness to over the past few weeks. Things I had tried so hard to erase from my mind. She started with an apology. An APOLOGY! Why is she apologizing for what my father did to her? For what HE did to the man in the car? I tried to tell her, “Mama, it wasn’t your fault.” but, she wouldn’t listen. She was ashamed that she hadn’t left him, but she was afraid of what he might do if she tried to. It was at that moment, at five and a half years old that she first told me why she was too scared to leave my father. Over the years I have heard the story many times, but I only really needed to hear it once for it to be branded onto the fabric of who I am. Before I tell you that story let me give you a little background on my upbringing in the Pentecostal Faith. My paternal grandparents, James W. Wilkins Sr. and Darlene Wilkins(yes, my father’s parents)were Pentecostal. My Papa Wilkins was an evangelist, pastor, preacher and a teacher until the day he died. My Nana Wilkins was the organist for his ministry. They had two biological sons and in addition they raised two of my half-brothers. They were both beautiful, warm and loving people who dedicated their lives to the ministry. My maternal grandparents, Bunnie and Nellie Lee, were poor sharecroppers who worked the cotton fields of Dothan Alabama along with their eight children, two boys and six girls(of which my mother was the second youngest). Papa and Granny Lee moved to Florida when their children were young and they settled in an area known as Plant City. There they attended a small church known as Southside Pentecostal Church of God. It is this church that I grew up in as my family attended this church until I married at seventeen. As far back as I can remember it was normal to have a deliverance during a church service. Our pastor, Sister Edna Mae Royster, was truly a woman of God and she was gifted with many gifts one of which being discernment. If someone came to church and they were possessed by an evil spirit she and the elders of the church would pray and cast it out of the person. There would always be one elder who would come around to the children and anoint our heads with oil while praying that the blood of Jesus would cover and keep us lest the evil spirit try to possess one of us. I have seen so many things as a Pentecostal that would be hard for anyone who is not Pentecostal to believe. I recall one instance where a woman, who could not have weighed more than one hundred and ten pounds, physically threw four grown men who were not so small, across the room before the spirits were cast out and she expelled the evidence of them into a garbage can in the form of vomit. I feel that it is imperative as I tell my story that you know I have never been sheltered from the reality that evil exists and that we are in a constant battle with it regardless of age, race, religion, gender or relation. With that in mind, please understand that my mother was attempting to prepare me for battle that day by equipping me with the knowledge of what we were really fighting. It was not my father, but an evil that had such a stronghold on him it would eventually take him to his grave. My mama started by telling me that she loved me and that she knew my daddy did too. Then I watched as she gathered her composure and prayed for God to help me understand what she was about to tell me. This story took place shortly after I was born. My mother had not long been filled with the Holy Ghost during one of my Papa Wilkins’ tent revivals. She was excited and full of joy as a result of a renewed relationship with God after falling away from her faith for a while. While my mother was finding her way back to God, my father was reconnecting with a friend of his who was a minister himself and the two of them had become inseparable. Little did my mother know that they were two scheming con-men who were preying on unsuspecting people who attended this “Minister’s” revival services. This man was holding a tent revival in the heart of Tampa every night and, after very lively and exciting performances, he would instruct my father to take up an offering. The offering was portrayed as a way to help feed and clothe the poor and homeless in the area so people would give even when they really couldn’t afford to give. On the last night of the revival my father insisted that they all stay in a suite at the motel across the street from the tent and “celebrate their success”. My mama said that she had gone to the room as soon as the service was over so that she could nurse me and put me to bed. Shortly after putting me down on a pallet beside the bed she heard my father, the “minister” and a woman come in the door. They were laughing and carrying on and she immediately knew they were all intoxicated. She was shocked to see that the minister was with a woman she recognized as his piano player and not his wife, whom she had met on several other occasions. My mother was in shock that this man, who presented himself as a minister of God, would be so irreverent and cruel, not to mention evil. He had fleeced God’s people for profit and she wanted no part of it. My father, on the other hand, insisted that she join them in their jubilation and libations. She refused. Her refusal was more than a dark cloud raining on their triumphant celebration, it was an embarrassment to him that she had disobeyed his order in front of these people. He punched her in the face, knocking her to the floor. He then excused himself to his friends and pulled her to the bedroom by the hair on her head. Once there he proceeded with her punishment, blow after blow until he could no longer stand. At that point he undressed and passed out on the bed. With me still asleep on the pallet by the bed, my mother tried to muffle her cries as she crawled over me and eased onto her side of the bed. She reached into the bedside table and took out the Gideon’s Bible that had been placed there and she started to read. She took turns reading, then praying both in silence for fear she might wake him. She didn’t understand why this was her lot in life. She didn’t understand why this man couldn’t be the charming, charismatic man that she loved all of the time. Mostly she didn’t understand how she could not have seen this side of him before she tied her life to him forever by having his child. No, that is not right. This is her child. I am her child. As she sat there making that silent declaration in her spirit, he sat up instantly, eyes wide and head turned toward her. He started speaking, but the voices coming from him were none his. She recalled a child’s voice, a woman’s voice and a malevolent voice as he asked her, “Who am I?”. With all of the strength she could muster she replied, “You are Skip.”. Again and again he asked “Who am I?” and each time she would reply “You are Skip.” Then all of the voices faded with the exception of the malevolent one and he looked in her eye and demanded, “I said, WHO AM I?”. At that moment she knew to who it was she was speaking and it was not my father so she answered, “You are Satan!”. He replied, “That’s right. I have got him and I will soon have you.”. My mama defied him as though she was standing on the shoulders of a giant facing down a measly ant when, in all actuality, she felt it was the other way around. With the backbone of Samson she told that demon, “You will NEVER have me. I belong to God”. The demon replied, “Oh yeah? Watch this. I can make him do anything I want him to.”. That is when my father got up from the bed and walked around to the side where I lay sleeping on the floor. He picked his foot up and put it on my head and said to my mama, “I can make him do anything I want him to do. I can make him crush her head with his foot if I want to.” That is when my beautiful, beaten, skinny little mama told the demon that she and I were covered by the blood of Jesus and “Satan, you can’t cross the bloodline!”. Immediately he removed his foot from my head and walked back to his side of the bed and laid down without another word. Mama said that when he woke up the next morning he did not remember any of what had happened, but she did....

#domesticviolence #mystory #demonicpossession #abuse #writer #installment4

[leighnetwork]

‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside'… of Blackpool.

Ever since I read about the elegant dances that took place in Blackpool Tower, I’ve wanted to go there. With its ornate ceiling and live music, the fresh sea air tinged with salt, the hustle and bustle of a seaside town in the height of its heyday of 1950’s Britain- and the fashions! I loved the descriptions of the frothy skirts that fluffed out as characters twirled, jumped and danced the night away. I’ve wanted to taste the air and hear the laughter of kids as the Irish sea tickles their feet for the first tine...

I’d imagined going up with cousins, but, of course, they grew too old for things like funfairs- preferring more exotic trips abroad. I’d envisioned a girly weekend with those friends who I’d known my whole life, who had stuck by me through moving across the country aged 11, had sent letters that kept me going when in hospital aged 12, who weren't ashamed to be seen out and about with me- a wheelchair user- as so many school friends were.

They stuck by me throughout the Leigh’s diagnosis, with only one drifting slightly. They supported Leigh Network with gusto! However, the test of friendship came when I lost my sight. In the blink of an eye, I lost what had, up to then, been a very good friend. I never thought she'd be the one to turn her back on 15+ years of friendship. But she was. Lol, it still niggles me that I never had a thank you text from her for the birthday gift I sent, nor a reply to my emails enquiring about how she was. Anyway, I hope she is well, and if she ever does want to nudge the door of friendship open, I will gladly welcome her back. I am, of course so, so grateful and thankful to those friends who have stuck by me as I face this new challenge of negotiating life blindly. I hope people see I am still the same funny, creative me I always was…

…Anyway! Wandered off on a tangent there, didn't I? Back to Blackpool!

When our Mito/ Leigh Network friends asked us to join them for dinner in Blackpool, how could we say no? When my mum and I began researching hotels in the area, we discovered a peculiarity on the internet.

A room is advertised at, say £45. But, when you phone up to check the access (we learned to do this as in the past, one B&B called itself ‘Accessible’ although it had 2 steps to get in!), when they hear the phrase 'accessible room', a £45 room becomes £70! I really do not know why businesses feel they can charge an extra £25, just because a person is V.I. and/ or a wheelchair user. Have they not heard of government cuts and the way the ill and disabled are being penalised for their health? We had no choice but to pay the additional charge for space to turn my wheelchair.

We arrived at the station on the hottest day of year: the sun was shining, and the temperature was rising, so we decided to stroll to The President Hotel.

The warm temperature dipped as we walked along the prom that stretched out across the Irish sea. Grey clouds tumbled across the sky turning the pristine blue sky dark, grey and foreboding as silvery clouds worked with charcoal ones to scrub the blue sky. As light rain speckles turned into pelting rain splodges, thunder growled angrily above us. We had found a shelter to huddle under, but as the rain got a bit lighter, we darted out to carry on our journey of finding the hotel. Racing along,  I glanced up and saw it - a crackle of white lightening.  'Can you go any faster, Faye?' my mum called over the  roaring thunder.

I picked up speed as the grey clouds cleared to white and the temperature rose again. What a beautiful storm.

The street access was very good, with dropped kerbs and beeping traffic lights aplenty. As I steered up the ramp of the hotel, an irony hit me - on the hottest day of the year, when London was bathing in 38 degrees, we were bathing in rain, being drenched in a storm, lol.

We checked in then squeezed into the small lift, but were glad for the lift, as so many places simply don't consider it. Our room was nice, despite being directly next to a staircase (with no signage to warn guests). The positives were: it had friendly staff, a turning space in both the room and bathroom and free WIFI. And the dining room overlooked the sea!

After relaxing with an audio book, we heard from our friends. They were on their way, so we headed out too. A warm breeze picked up, giving the  grey-blue-golden sky a dusty glow. We were about halfway to the pub we were meeting in, when I felt little pricks on my bare arms and legs . ‘It’s raining!' I called to mum, as the little needle-like pricks turned into big, fat raindrops. My mum hurried to put up the umbrella. In the distance, I heard thunder rumble deeply. But, just as quickly as it had started, the sun came out and a warm calm returned.

We have met with Dave and Christine at the last few Newcastle Mito Patient Days. They are a lovely couple. We have known Cheryl, Gary and their 28-year-old daughter since they came and attended  our Leigh Network meeting in Liverpool in 2014 and since then, our friendship has grown.

As we all caught up on each other’s news in the Weatherspoon’s seafront pub, or meals arrived. Alex's baby niece and young nephew provided us all with entertainment- bouncing and dancing round our table. Like a rocket, H zipped around and E had us all laughing with his boundless energy!

After finishing our meals, we strolled along to the funfair on the pier. The sun was out again now, and a warm breeze blew as we chatted on our way to the pier.

Shrieks of laughter and fear filled the air as fairground music sang. The colourful rides whooshed and bounced, swinging through the sea-salty, candyfloss sweetened air. Cheryl's husband took his thrill- seeking grandson on the rides, Dave, Cheryl, Alex, my mum and I cheering him on as he gleefully squealed, whilst the other kids cried to get off!

We slowly ambled back along the prom, our evening with friends coming to a close. As the temperature dropped slightly, we all hugged and said, ‘See you later’.

We picked up a portion of chips on our way back to the B&B and my Mum noticed the fairy lights along the prom that lit up, changing colour as night fell.

The following  day, we explored the famous Blackpool Tower. Although the lift lacked an audio announcer, the general access was good- though staff could do with being aware of invisible illnesses- and an audio-described tour would be appreciated.

We went up to the very top. Out of the window, I could just see an expanse of beautiful blue sky. It seemed endless yet confining and imposing. At the very bottom of the window, I could just make out a strip of golden-brown colour, which I assumed to be sand. The tower has a skywalk- it’s a floor made of see-through glass- to give you a new perspective on the sea-view. Below, it just looked grey and cloudy to my V.I. eyes.

We then headed down to the well-renowned and internationally recognised Blackpool Tower Ballroom, where the Strictly Come Dancing Special takes place.

The cosy, warm, darkly lit ballroom felt like we had stepped back in time, with its ornate, intricately tiled ceiling and the pink and orange sign that adorned the wall behind the dancefloor to remind us of where we were. On the dancefloor, the atmosphere intensified as a couple of professional dancers tangoed and rhumba’d their way around in time to the organ being played- live-  by the musician.

Whilst my mum watched and I listened, we were reminded of my Nan, who spent much of her youth and married life in dance halls.

When the professionals took a breather, audience members were invited onto the dancefloor. We were reminded of the past times and courtesy of my Nan’s generation, when an elderly gentleman asked my mum to dance the waltz. Unfortunately, due to my mum’s lack of dancing experience, she had to turn his kind offer down (she was also scared of standing on his toes).

After being unable to convince her, he walked off to ask another who did fulfil his dancing dream. We sipped the remainder of our drinks, watching/ listening to the scene. At the end, the organist thanked the dancers and audience, before, as if by magic, disappearing into the stage, as a pianist appeared. We enjoyed a few more performances then headed off to catch our train after popping to a few shops.

We really enjoyed our first trip to Blackpool and look forward to returning!

Since then, we at Leigh Network were delighted to hear Blackpool Tower took part in Global Mitochondrial Disease Awareness Week by glowing green for mito! Well done Blackpool Tower!

#greatbritishsummertime memories friends leighnetwork mitochondrialdisease blackpool blackpooltower disabledaccess lightupformito