Seaside
None of it came as a surprise.
On this, my first trip to the English seaside, it was summer and I knew it would be cold, grey and drizzly. The towns, with their facades of chalky, pastel greens, oranges and pinks had a crust of decay, like a birthday cake left on the back seat of a car, but I knew they would.
I knew that half way through the fish and chips I bought from the kiosk on the promenade I would wish I had ordered the children’s serve. I looked into the eyes of the seagulls gathering around the park bench, and I looked into their eyes and they said, “Well, you know perfectly well what to expect, so why look so annoyed?” I also know that when I turned my collar up against the damp breeze and headed to the amusement park, I did not expect to watch people having fun but instead act out a dismal compromise.
I know all of this because for as long as I have been alive the English have assured me that they only go to the seaside to have a miserable time. What can be more desolate than standing under a frayed canvas awning, sheltering from the sputtering rain and eating fish and chips that were once just greasy but are now also wet? Imagine the camera drawing back on this scene, the credits beginning to roll, and the audience leaving the small, stuffy cinema, content to have witnessed someone else who had a day every bit as mundane and unfulfilling as theirs.
On this, my first trip to the English seaside, it was summer and I knew it would be cold, grey and drizzly. The towns, with their facades of chalky, pastel greens, oranges and pinks had a crust of decay, like a birthday cake left on the back seat of a car, but I knew they would.
I knew that half way through the fish and chips I bought from the kiosk on the promenade I would wish I had ordered the children’s serve. I looked into the eyes of the seagulls gathering around the park bench, and I looked into their eyes and they said, “Well, you know perfectly well what to expect, so why look so annoyed?” I also know that when I turned my collar up against the damp breeze and headed to the amusement park, I did not expect to watch people having fun but instead act out a dismal compromise.
I know all of this because for as long as I have been alive the English have assured me that they only go to the seaside to have a miserable time. What can be more desolate than standing under a frayed canvas awning, sheltering from the sputtering rain and eating fish and chips that were once just greasy but are now also wet? Imagine the camera drawing back on this scene, the credits beginning to roll, and the audience leaving the small, stuffy cinema, content to have witnessed someone else who had a day every bit as mundane and unfulfilling as theirs.
