Week 43: The Seaside

 

Bumper to bumper, cars sniff one another’s arseholes. Bloody M25!

Fleet’s had a face-lift, got a new Pizza Express.

Kit that’s my choc au pain – get your mitts off.

Building up a head of steam now, the M3 never lets you down.

In a minute you’ll see the sea boys. Drink it in.

Like a drill sergeant, the attendants put us in lines. The ferry is ready to depart.

Right, we’ll drop our bags off, get some lunch, then head down to the beach.

The seaside – like our sandwiches- has been wrapped in cellophane. It has been preserved, kept the same for decades. Children still dig holes to Australia, women sunbathe and men refuse to put on sun-screen.

We’ll have a quick go on the swing, then head home to change before the pub.

The Black Swan pub. Orwell’s ‘Moon Under The Water.’ The best inn in Britain. Nice to see you again, the first staff member says.

Four lots of fish and chips please.

What would you like? Peas or beans?

Peas please.

Plates emptied, bellies full, hunger sated.

Anyone care for some pudding?

Is the Pope Catholic?

It’s a yes then.

It’s a yes.

Accidentally, Kit farts in the woman next to us face.

So sorry about that.

No need to apologise. Only age you can really get away with doing it.

 

The boys don’t sleep well. They’re in unfamiliar beds under an unfamiliar roof.

 

All of us under the cover watching CBeebies.

Now look. There’s no choice on this TV. You have to watch what you’re given. It’s fun though. You don’t know what’s coming next.

The Hey Duggie episode is on the seaside. Are you going to get your sandcastle badge today boys?

I want to go to the arcade.

We’ll go the arcade first.

A hundred simultaneous sounds. The flicker of a thousand lights. A million ways to lose a pound.

Daddy, I want to play Wac-a-mole.

By the time the pound hits the slot the game is over.

Let’s go to the beach whilst we still have some money in our pockets.

What’s this daddy?

It’s boules. You throw this small ball and then try and get your big ball near it.

I like this game, Daddy.

Five seconds later the game is abandoned.

A cricket pitch is just down the way. Howzat! A football match is happening up ahead. Never a foul!

Who wants an ice cream?

I want chocolate.

Jude, do you want an ice cream?

He can have a lick.

Jude has ice cream for the first time - it won’t be his last time. Kit’s tongue is in a race with the sun. Kit edges it, but his jumper has chocolate rivers flowing down it.

Want to see the steam train on the way home?

Yeah. No. Yeah.

The valve opens and the whistle is a catcall you can’t ignore.

Jude cries. Kit holds mummy’s hand.

That was loud.

It was loud, but that’s ok.

We wave to the driver. The driver waves back. We wave to the window seats. The window seats don’t wave back. Miserable bastards.

Pizza for the adults. A bit of fish for the boy.

I’ll do the washing up. You watch Sewing Bee.

Harriet is asleep on on the sofa. Fresh air will do that to you.

 

The boys sleep better. We won’t need matchsticks for our eyes.

The arcade doesn’t open until ten. We’ll have to go for a cup of coffee first.

And cake?

You can share a bit of cake.

We throw the balls down the bowling simulation. It’s programmed to avoid the gutters. It’s designed to keep children happy, so they won’t cry when their ball disappears into the void.

Kit, we’re on a golden ball. We’ve got so many strikes they’ve given us an extra go.

A hundred pins across the scene now. The game has lot its senses.

We did it!

Ticket after ticket descend from the machine. Over the years we’ve been coming we must have a few thousand. Surely enough for a key ring.

Play some bat and ball on the beach. Jude is under a Bacardi Breezer umbrella. Do you want one boys? My friend’s mum asked me twenty years ago. I’ve checked with your mum and she said it’s fine. On the continent they have a drink with their meal, so they don’t go off the rails when they're sixteen.

Kit takes a walk up the beach with his mum. Jude is happy under the umbrella. Mum and me don’t talk. Talk is expensive when you don’t have much time for it. We sink into our books. Someone can pull us out in a few hours.

Shake the sand out of our sandals. We’re always going to bring some contraband home with us though. Sand is always smuggled in hair, bag, car.

We’ll get these boys bathed and pyjamed, then we’ll have tea.

Plates washed. Bags packed. Travel sweets readied. Flat brushed. Plugs checked. We’re ready.

But I don’t want to go home.

Not wanting to go home is a sign you’ve had a good time.

But I don’t want to go home.

I know darling. None of us do. But holidays have to end so they can start again.

Say bye to the flat.

The car snakes down the seafront, touring through the hotspots of these yellow days.

Say bye to the trains.

Say bye to the park.

Say bye to the arcade.

Say bye to the beach.

Say bye to the sand.

Say bye.