A beautiful sunset.
We sat watching the sun disappear over the horizon as the tide slowly came in to shore on a cool summer breeze.
James: “I’ve been told that when you’re having a poo, if you squeeze too hard your organs will drop out.”
My Fitness app blew up. We had been walking that much it stopped counting my steps and went into meltdown. Sun cream was running into my eyes, stinging as they were as I squinted against the sun.
I convinced him that it was time, after hours walking around Blackpool in the heat, to head back to the B&B for a shower.
Cold shower done, it was bliss to lounge on the bed in the shade.
“Dad, can we go on the beach now with the football?”
I silently sighed in exasperation.
“Why don’t we take a break for a bit first? We don’t have to do everything at once. We’ve still got three days here.”
“Please. I want to go into the sea while you take shots at me.”
I mentioned the sun, how it might be cooler and safer in a few hours, but he broke down all my walls. So off we went, sun cream back on, into the oppressive heat. It was a million degrees.
There wasn’t much relief in the sea breeze, either, and as he waded in there a few feet I began launching the football at him beneath the sledgehammer sun.
The only thing off-putting to him were the jellyfish, they were washing up everywhere on the sand. It wasn’t enough for him to call it a day, though. Maybe he felt challenged by the two younger kids (they sounded Australian) who were scooping them up and throwing them back into the water.
And then came was Divine Intervention.
The next day was the first of the annual Blackpool Airshow, with the Red Arrows, Spitfires and all others expected to attract a further 100,000 people to the holiday resort. While we were stood there, he up to his waist in the sea, me wilting on the beach, two low-flying jets came screaming in above us. Maybe they were coming in early for tomorrow’s show, or the pilot’s were familiarising themselves with the route they were due to take.
“What are those?” he shouted in alarm, looking upwards.
“Quick!” I said, taking the opportunity, “we have to get back to the B&B. It’s the Russians!”
It was the first day of five spent in Blackpool, and he was eager to try out the rides on the South Pier. So, after a Maccies breakfast, we had a walk over. The day was young but was already heating up, our stay coinciding with another August heatwave.
We purchased tickets from the booth – twenty five tickets for twenty five pounds – and he nudged me towards the first one that he wanted to go on. I can’t now recall its name, but that became the least of my worries.
We were locked in and the ride began as the music started to blare, the speed building as we began to spin in our seats as the mechanical arms holding us moved us in and out of the attraction’s outer edge.
In/out In/out.
Within minutes I thought I was going to throw up (did I mention that this was straight after a Maccies breakfast?).
How embarrassing would that be? Me, at fifty, by far the oldest person on it, surrounded by young children with my eleven-year-old son cheering alongside me. As the speed increased so did that feeling in my stomach. I painted on a smile for James every time he glanced at me in this, our great shared experience, and tried my best to contain myself.
The relief I felt when the ride began to slow. I’d managed to get through it without raising any suspicions of how I was feeling, thus maintaining an aura of heroic cool in his eyes.
But soon I discovered that the only reason we had stopped was because a kid, about seven years old, had banged his head and they were letting him off as he was upset.
And then, over the speakers: “BECAUSE WE STOPPED EARLY, WE’LL SEND ALL YOU ‘ROUND AGAAAAIIINNNN !”
Jesus.
“SCREAM IF YOU WANNA GO FASTER!!!”
Keep your fucking mouths shut I thought to myself.
I could hear them over the music.
In an effort to distract myself from what was building within, I began reciting a mantra: don’t think about food/don’t think about food/don’t think about food
But the only word my tormenting mind was focusing on was ‘food’.
It got worse. I kept my mouth closed and my eyes down to avoid the swirling, dizzying landscape around me. Somehow, I’m not sure how, I managed to contain myself until the ride’s end and clambered out of the carriage on shaky legs.
An oblivious and excited James was eager for more fast-thrill stuff, rhyming off a list of all of the rides that awaited us. I managed to convince him that if he went on the rides alone from now on his tickets would last longer and he’d get to go on even more rides. He appreciated this altruistic gesture as I waved him off on the Waltzers and then hurried forthwith to the toilets in the amusement arcade. I thought that if I could induce myself to vomit, getting the seeming inevitable out of the way, then I’d be okay after that.
There was no toilet roll. With there likely to be someone waiting outside to use the toilet after me I couldn’t afford to miss the target. I’m going to have to get this right. I lifted the seat to avoid any splashing, bent right over the pan and stuck my finger down my throat. Twice.
Nothing.
I abandoned my plan as my still unsuspecting son would be coming to the end of his ride. I went outside to be confronted by the sight of a boy being sick at the pier rail. He was about ten. A security guard was asking him if he was alright, speaking into a radio when the lad shook his sweaty head in response in-between heaves. I started in horror at the idea of him having to deal with middle-aged me if I followed suit. The current casualty list age being: seven, ten, fifty.
I looked out over the seafront and took deep breaths, hoping the sea air would help but the sight of the rolling waves made me worse.
“That was great!” James said when he found me, his hand finding my sleeve to tug me towards the next ride in his sights.
And again. And again. Literally: ad nauseam.
Eventually he ran out of tickets and we ran out of morning.
Which meant only one thing: lunch time.
Although feeling a little better, I was still slightly queasy, and everything he suggested sounded greasy. Chips; burgers; hotdogs.
I tried to play it cool. “How about a nice salad bar?”
“What’s one of those?!” he asked with barely disguised disgust. “A salad bar? On Blackpool front?” While pointing out a stall nearby that had onions frying at eye-level. I needed to avert those eyes.
There’s four days to go.
It’s a thousand degrees.
She who, in the beginning, first gave us life, will be the one at the end to finish us.
Now it’s the heat with the media.
“We’re not scaremongering – just don’t underestimate how dangerous it is getting. If you must go to the beach choose one that has a lifeguard. And keep watching for those who could be in danger.”
And watch those dripping ice cream cones. And be careful when crossing the road in flip flops.
My son is eleven years old tomorrow and last night we took him and three of his friends (along with his tag-along sister) for something to eat.
I was surprised when we came back outside to stumble into a proper, bonafide Summer evening. A nice reminder that the season hasn’t conceded to Autumn just yet.
I have to say that it didn’t feel particularly summery when we went inside. The summer lovin’ happened so fast.
from my poetry blog
Hymn To Hillbillies
As yesterday was the solstice, I was feeling these Southern Californian summer surf-scene vibes from ‘64.
Love the old cars. Are those surfers still out there?
What a difference a bit of sunshine makes to our locked-down spirits!
I sat a while in our town centre gardens, drinking a coffee while watching people come and go. It was almost, almost, like the world before, when nothing impinged on our intentions and freedom other than schedules and finance.
The new warmth took me back even further, to around 2006, when I was in Rome. I would get up early and after showering go for a walk along the Tiber. Along the way I’d call for a bottle of water from a small shop that I knew of, tucked away down a small backstreet, that was championed by the locals as it didn’t charge the inflated prices that the others inflicted upon we tourists.
I would loop a route back round to take in Peter and Paul in St.Peter’s Square, up there high on their pedestals, before the crowds arrived with their clicking cameras and eager eyes. As the day wore on, with the sun well on its way to reach its zenith, there were no shortage of churches that I could choose from to seek respite in their cool stone shade.
It was on one of those days, easy and long, that I was sat having a beer next to the Colosseum when my wife messaged to inform me that the girl we fostered had shaved off her eyebrows!
Talk about being hooked right back into the ‘real’ world back home.
It’s funny how different places bring different memories, small connections that lead into each other over time. Hopefully soon there will be new places offering new memories and connections to be made down the line.
Anyway, that particular memory found a home in my second poetry collection In Brigantia, born of a conversation with one girl that made a connection with the recollection of another.
City Jackdaw 