Holidays

My son is going on holiday with his dad tomorrow. Just for a week, but I'll feel as though my arm has been cut off. There will be less blood shed, but that will be the only difference. He loves his holidays, doesn't care where he goes, loves playing on the beach, riding his bike, typical boy.

When I was his age, I had been to the same place on holiday for as long as I could remember. We'd go on the coach to a place on the East Coast called Sutton on Sea, We'd stay in the same little guest house,just across the road from a bigger hotel, and when you crossed the road to go to the beach, you'd walk pas this hotel and see the crab pots still glistening and wet. Then you'd climb some steep pebbled steps to get to the sea front, and all the way up the smell of the sea got stronger and more salty. When you got to the top, there was a row of beach huts, my mum and dad hired one every year, it would contain deckchairs, a kettle, a sink that was always gritty with sand. They didn't have any water, but they all contained a huge water bottle which I begged to be allowed to carry to the tap near the steps. When you turned it on, the wind would blow so hard that the water came out almost horizontally.

I've not been back since I was maybe 11 or 12, but I know that I could find my way round if I went tomorrow. It's not a very big place, I don't suppose it has the the "right" sort of requirements for a summer holiday any more. But one day, I'll take my son there.

And we'll both love it.

I can't wait for him to get back, and he hasn't even gone yet.