Archive | Holiday RSS feed for this section

Spotlight on

28 Feb

Hello everyone a while back I started up what I thought would be a regular feature on this blog by introducing readers to writers I felt deserved wider recognition for their craft. Today I want to introduce you to Irene Roberts a writer who is from Wigan like myself. Irene is a big retro fan so as you can imagine we get on famously though we’ve only just become friends. Irene was a regular columnist for the local Past Forward magazine up until around 2010. I love her work and hope you do too, ladies and gentlemen, Irene Roberts…spotlight

The Dream

IN THE dream I am a child again, running over the back-field to the ‘pens’where the men keep hens and pigeons. I run in slow motion – I don’t mean to – that’s just how it is in the dream – that, and the strange silence. I can see my dad chatting with a pal by the pigeon-cotes, and he waves to me, the fragrant aroma of his pipe-tobacco mingling with the scent of privet and rosebay willow-herb, filling the air with familiar, comforting smells of childhood. High above, an aeroplane, inaudible in the odd silence, leaves a trail of white vapour in a perfect summer sky. I feel safe here, in the past, and I hold on to the dream, not wanting to wake up, because I know that, whilst I dream, my mam will still be at home in the kitchen, standing on the pegged rug in her faded cross-over pinny, humming to herself as she makes potato pies – a family one in the big brown dish and two tiny ones in little white, illicit ‘British Rail’ cups – a regular Saturday-teatime treat for my friend Christine and me.

She likes a ‘flutter’ on the horses, does mam – sixpence each way on “Newsboy” – and I hurry with her down the back entry to a house where bets are laid out on the table, and where the bookie’s wife and unmarried daughter are always ready for a gossip. There is a plaster Alsatian dog on a crocheted runner on top of a huge radiogram which, come Sunday dinnertime, will broadcast ‘Two-way Family Favourites’ . . . “And now a request from B.F.P.O. 17” . . . followed by ‘The Billy Cotton Bandshow’.

images

Over the fireplace is a mirror etched with a picture of a crinoline lady in a garden. I can see that room yet, and I can hear the clock ticking and the fire crackling. Mam was the Mrs Malaprop of Ince – always getting her words wrong and mixing proverbs with a kind of reckless abandon: “A bird in th’and”, she would state dramatically, “gathers no moss!” – and then she would laugh with us, good naturedly, at her own mistakes. Those precious moments have gone down in history in our family – lovely reminders of that patient, gentle soul whose whole world lay in the vicinity of the damp little terraced house that was her home.

A bus-ride into Wigan, with a look round Woolworths and a cup of tea in Gorner’s Café, was a treat, and half a day at Southport was her holiday. We went from Ince Station, our feet echoing over the covered elevated walkway of wooden planks, and I tried not to look at the ground so far below. My dad bought our tickets from the little ticket-office, and there was a tiny waiting-room whose coal-fire lay unlit on our summer outings. Oh! The thrill as the train chugged into the station, filling the air with the heady smell of steam on a sunny June morning – it was enough to make you dizzy!

We sat in long narrow carriages with pictures above the seats and leather straps to let the windows up or down, and I can still feel the tingle of excitement as the guard blew his whistle and the train gathered speed. My dad always recited the stations between Wigan and Southport: Gathurst, Appley Bridge, Parbold …. And somewhere along the way there was a bone-works which stunk to high heaven, and the thud-thud of carriage windows being shut was like machine gun fire!

unnamed

Arriving in Southport, we always went to ‘Mary’s Café’ for our dinner; the building that was ‘Mary’s’ is still there, just down a side street – no longer a café, and seen today through misty eyes and memories, but in the dream we can still go inside. A ride on the miniature railway and a turn on the ‘caterpillar’, and all too soon it was time to go home.

As we walked from Ince Station the evening sun slanted on terraced rows, throwing into shadow the corner-shop with its huge potato-scales and its tiny toffee-scales. On the shelves, bundles of firewood and packets of Omo with 4d off jostled for space with ‘Twink’ home-perms and bottles of ‘Drene’ shampoo. Cards hung haphazardly on the walls, each holding a dozen combs or babies’ dummies or the little bottles of patent medicines in which our mams had such faith. Strings of paper bags hung on nails by the “penny tray” – little white three-cornered ones for sweets and square brown ones for fruit and vegetables; everything else went straight into the customer’s own shopping basket, or a threepenny brown paper carrier bag with string handles – there were no plastic carriers in our little world.

Today there is a fish-andchip shop in Ince Green Lane; in my childhood it was the Co-op – in the dream it still is. Everyone called it ‘t’cworp’ or ‘t’stores’ then, and there were chairs to sit on; the lady assistants wore little caps with “C.W.S.” on, and served you personally, reckoning up your bill at the speed of light on long slips of paper, licking pencils which they kept behind their ears, and our mams collected little yellow ‘checks’ which they stuck onto a card for their ‘Divi’.

Just further down the lane was ‘Little Amy’s’ offlicence, which was in a time warp even then! Ancient, faded showcards portrayed young ladies of a bygone era enjoying Bulmer’s cider – the only decoration to grace Amy’s, apart from the sticky yellow flypaper hanging by the one dim electric lightbulb. Packets of crisps were kept in a blue tin with a Union Jack painted on each side, and we bought ‘Spangles’ and ‘Penny Arrows’, ‘Black-Jacks’ and ‘Sherbet Fountains’; does anyone remember …. Not boxes, but bars of milk-tray chocolate – six different flavours all in one bar? We pretended to smoke our ‘sweet cigarettes’, which in these so-called enlightened days have to be called ‘candy sticks’ in case they encourage children to smoke, and yet I must have eaten enough to sink a battleship, and never once had the urge to try the real thing. download

 

As I emerge from Amy’s dim little shop into the brilliant sunshine, my mind begins to wake from the dream, but I fight it – I want to stay, just for a while, in my childhood, where old ladies sit out on chairs in the sun, watching ‘t’childer’ at play – little girls jumping into skipping-ropes …. “All in together girls, very fine weather girls”……. or whipping tops along the pavement with whips made out of ‘banding’ – a kind of tubular string which my Aunty Mary brought home from the Empress Mill. I walk, a child again, through a vanished world of rag-bone men and gas-lamps, of factory-hooters and outside toilets, of jagged pieces of glass stuck into cement on the tops of walls to deter thieves, and of running to the shop for a ’gas-shilling’ when the gas was ‘begging’.

I know that, if I stay asleep, I can still go on the Labour-Club trip and I will be given 10 shillings in a brown envelope to spend at Southport or Blackpool; and, twice a year, I can visit Silcock’s Fair on the spare land, with its toffee-apples and candy-floss, where the older girls, sporting beehive hairdos and stiletto heels, eye up the fair-lads who stand fearlessly on the waltzer, spinning the screaming girls dizzily round to the strains of ‘Cathy’s Clown’ or Bryan Hyland’s haunting ‘Sealed with a Kiss’. The fair came twice a year – once in the spring and once in the tingling autumn dusk, when we entered a magic world of glitter and flashing lights, and it is only when we wake from the dream that we see it as a few square yards of tattered gaiety set between back-yards and factory walls.

I always know when the dream is ending; I am running, again in slowmotion, down Ince Green Lane, over flagstones whose every crack and crevice is as familiar as my own hands. Little terraced homes, long demolished, still stand, and friendly neighbours, kneeling with buckets and donkey-stones, slowly smile and nod as I pass by in the eerie silence. Our terraced row stood back from the road, invisible until you reached it, and strangely, in the dream, I never do reach it – never get to see again the little row of six houses where I grew up, but I know it is there, waiting for me, just out of sight. I wake, slowly and reluctantly at first, and then I remember that this is a very special day; the past is a dream and I must let it go – the present is real and it’s here, and I have a wedding to go to!

Mam and Dad didn’t live to see the day; they never got to meet our Beccy, my lovely daughter -in- law, but they would have loved her as I do. I see their faces, smiling through the mists of time, but today they must stay behind in the dream, as I walk down the path of a lovely old London church, 200 miles and a million years away from my childhood home, to witness their grandson’s wedding. Their little girl is today the bridegroom’s mother, and I am conscious, as I enter the cool, dim interior of the church, that I must walk slowly with dignity, as befits my role. But the child in me is running – running through the clear air of a sparkling sunlit morning long ago, running for the sheer joy of living, as only a child knows how, across the back-field and down the dear, familiar road that will take me home. 

Irene Roberts

 

What I did on my holidays

6 Oct

What I did on my Holidays 

new brighton

Hope you all had a great summer and the weather has been quite decent this year for a change. Mind you as I look out from the turret of Topping Towers it’s raining quite heavily as I type this. Now back when I was a youngster 300 years ago it was sunny every day of the school holidays and we would travel to foreign lands like Morecambe, Rhyl and New Brighton. What those dumps I hear you say? Now then don’t be so cheeky they were quite exotic and magical places in the 50’s and 60’s. Come on let’s travel back and take a look.

As a family our main holiday would tend to be Blackpool or Butlin’s but day trips out were an important part of the summer holidays especially Southport and it’s a thriving place today but I want to focus on the local seaside resorts that faded and died. New Brighton attracted thousands of people to its seashore in the 1960’s when I was a nipper. Hard to imagine if you visit the place today but once upon a time it rivalled Blackpool and had a bigger tower than the Fylde coast one.

The tower was a whopping 567 feet high! Built in 1900 it was dismantled in 1919 because the owners couldn’t afford to maintain it so they sold it for scrap. Six men were killed in the building of the tower and one fireman fell 90 feet to his death from a six inch wide beam trying to tackle a blaze. On one occasion a woman and her child had to spend the night up at the top of the structure after the lift closed. They didn’t even bother making a complaint when they were discovered the next morning. They were made of sterner stuff in those days.

The big draw for me about going to New Brighton was the journey to get there. Train from Wigan to Liverpool and then the walk through the city to the docks. Hustle and bustle, buildings so big they took your breath away, grime, smoke and tons of atmosphere. Then you got to the docks! Ships jostling for position, big and small all huffing and puffing, some bound for lands I had only read about like the Isle of Man! Our ship was only a smallish one, the New Brighton ferry, but for a little while I was Fletcher Christian on board The Bounty.

New Brighton had a decent funfair, not on a par with Blackpool but enough to keep kids entertained. The giant tower had long since disappeared before I was born but the massive tower building still stood and housed the Beatles more times than anywhere else bar The Cavern. It also had a massive outdoor swimming pool that hosted beauty contests. The Tower Building was destroyed by fire a recurring theme sadly throughout seaside demise.

The pier where you alighted from the ferry at New Brighton is long gone and you can no longer get there by boat. You can however get a ferry across the Mersey and walk the couple of miles to New Brighton along a flat promenade. It’s a pleasant trip on a nice day and you can hunt for the ghosts of former glories as you make your way there.

Not much of Morecambe’s glories remain I’m sad to say but it was similar to New Brighton in the 50’s and 60’s. Funfair, giant open air swimming pool, theatres and all the trimmings of a jolly day out. Morecambe even had its own version of SeaWorld with a dolphin show in the 1960’s and I vaguely remember going unless my minds playing tricks. It definitely had an old sailing ship moored there and I went on it. The ship was used in the films Treasure Island and Moby Dick and it was a classic old vessel but sadly it was destroyed by fire in the early seventies.

Moby Dick

Moby Dick

Morecambe used to be known as “Little Bradford” because of the Yorkshire folk who travelled there by train. The funfair at Morecambe which opened in 1906 underwent many changes not least in 1987 when it was remarketed as “Frontierland” a Western style theme park with the same rides tarted up. It wasn’t a success and in 2000 it was closed down with all the rides finding new homes apart from the Polo Tower which was left standing. I’m surprised that tower didn’t find a buyer after all it must have made a mint! Geddit? Mint? Polo? Oh please yourselves.

More indignity was heaped on Morecambe when in 1994 Crinkly Bottom or Blobbyland opened its doors. The ahem brainchild of Noel Edmonds it closed 13 weeks after opening due to a disinterested public and lost 2 million pounds from the local council funds. Colin Crompton of Wheeltappers and Shunters fame once said of Morecambe “There are some nice drives out of Morecambe. ANY road out of Morecambe is a nice drive”

Before I move onto the seaside resort of Rhyl I thought I would give you a flavour of what it was like to be a kid in the 1960’s on a day trip. If it was a sunny most of the day would be spent on the beach. Kids in cossies Mum’s and Dad’s in casual attire with the occasional showing of white flesh when they roused themselves to go paddling in the sea or swimming in the open air pools. Granddad would be in his former best suit now relegated to knocking about wear with sandals and socks plus flat cap. Grandma would be resplendent in summer frock with overcoat and hat.

Every adult had a deckchair while kids sat on the sand or scurried about getting water for the sandcastle moat a pointless task since it disappeared immediately. Butties from home would be opened on the beach and be guaranteed to be sandblasted in seconds giving a gritty texture to your corned beef butty. Buckets and spades were made of tin that rusted as soon as you got them home. Cowboy hats for boys and frilly fringed hats for girls were the de rigour at the seaside. Tin pots of tea filled with scalding water were entrusted with children to carry over a landscape filled with semi naked bodies. We loved it!

Rhyl was one of the few day trips that evolved into a week’s holiday and I stayed here twice both times at the Sunnyvale Camp. The camp opened in the 1920’s and is still going today but the open air swimming pool that I splashed about in is long gone. Hard to believe that Rhyl was a booming tourist destination back in the day but it’s another of those places that has fell on hard times. Not hard to see why when tourism is your biggest asset. Thankfully the town is getting back on its feet now and I may have to revisit the place for a fresh view.

Rhyl 1960's

In 1962 Rhyl made history by having the world’s first hovercraft passenger service from the resort to Wallasey. It started ferrying (or should that be hovering?) passengers in July that year but it wasn’t a success due to mechanical problems and stopped its service in September 1962. The resort had a decent funfair named Ocean Beach a cracking name reminiscent of American theme parks and another funfair at the Marine Lake. Good theatres, a pier, open air swimming pool, nice beach and lovely countryside nearby all added to the appeal of the place but it just didn’t resonate with me that much really.

Other notable day trips in the summer holidays included trips to Belle Vue funfair and zoo, the Lake District, Chester and the zoo, Southport, Blackpool and still one of my most favourite places in the world Lytham St Annes. I hope you’ve enjoyed this nostalgic trip, don’t forget your sticks of rock and bars of nougat and I’ll see you on the steam train home!

Tony Topping

Wakes Week

12 Feb

ud2hngysWakes Week

 

Early July 1963 and a sparrow alights upon the roof of a small terraced house that is home to my family but a slum to the bigwigs of Wigan Council. In 18 months time the sparrow, should it survive the smog from the billowing chimneys of both home and industry, will have no rooftops to visit in this part of town, every house will have been cut down by the council reaper.

Being a small boy such things caused no frowns upon me. I did get a little agitated when the paperboy was late delivering my comics to my granddads house and I admit maths gave me a headache at times, such as every time we had a maths lesson but today I had only one thing on my mind…we were going on holiday to Blackpool!

We walked it to the train station from our house in Wallgate with my dad carrying two cases. Tickets bought we joined the throng of people on the platform waiting for the Blackpool train. I just had time to visit the newspaper kiosk and clutching my pennies I eased myself through the masses and prepared myself for the big decision… Dandy Summer Special or Beano Summer Special? Beano, no Dandy, perhaps Beano then, or Dan… “Anthony hurry up the trains coming!” shouted my Mam. Beano it is and I hurried back to Mam, Dad and my two sisters.

The steam train, all smoke and noise, slowed alongside the platform and begrudgingly squealed to a halt, a mighty black dragon eager to move on. Compartment doors banged open and my sisters and I rushed on to save the seats for our parents. Cases safely stored in the overhead netting we set off on our journey. Ten minutes later my Mam got the butties out and I sat back to read my comic, this is the life!

37ozxmqn

As we got closer to our destination my sisters and I scanned the skyline hoping to be the first to spot the black outline of the famous tower. And then it appeared, the man made monolith of mirth…

We disembarked at Central Station and joined the hosts of holidaymakers packed on the platform, shuffling their way slowly to the exits. Familiar faces lined up with us and I saw some friends from school, Dad his mates from work and Mam… well she knew everyone. A year later and this busy, perfectly good station would be flattened. I hope the Wigan sparrow didn’t come here for his holidays or he might develop a complex.

Outside the station, boys not much older than me waited with homemade trolleys to transport the cases to your lodging house for sixpence. Dad put the cases on one and off we marched like explorers going into an uncharted land. We checked into “Dunroamin” and the landlady Mrs Dunsmilin informed us of the house rules “Breakfast 7am till 8am, off the premises by 9am, no coming back before 4pm, evening meal 5pm till 6pm and the front door is locked at 11:30 pm” She peered down at me and my sisters, like a woman who had found something unpleasant on the sole of her shoe and added “And no running” No running? We’d have to be Stirling Moss to adhere to that timetable.

4726651-the+beano+summer+special+v1964+1965+(1965)+pagecover

Unpacked we set off for the beach with its golden sands…hang on where was the sand? Every space on the beach was taken with deckchairs, prams, tea huts, snack vans, ice cream vendors and the population of Mongolia. We managed to find a spot and settled down, Mam and Dad in the chairs and we kids digging into the sand with our tin spades and buckets. Dad even rolled his pants up a bit.

My sisters built a sandcastle and I dug a moat around it, now to fill it with water. I set off for the sea with my bucket, I knew it was out there somewhere but I couldn’t see it for deckchairs. I gingerly made my way through the canvas maze standing on feet, kids, castles, butties, lovelorn couples and mugs of tea. You could have tracked my progress by my apologetic “Sorry… Sorry… really sorry…” Finally I made it through to the beautiful blue… erm… brown sea.

I filled my bucket with water and turned to go back, but where was back? A sea of pink and white flesh faced me, with a few sports jackets thrown into the mix. I tried to retrace my steps but to no avail and people tend to stare aggressively back when you’re looking to see if they are in some way familiar in a “Did I stand on your corns earlier” fashion. Eventually my Dad turned up in his budgies (I acted like I didn’t know him, the state of that cossie) and I followed him back at a respectable distance.

Our evenings were spent in various places, we went to the pictures, a variety show, the Winter Gardens, up and down the prom with all its amusements, but for me the best place of all was inside the Blackpool Tower building.

blackpool1955pa-6457839-20171124143055177_web

In there I could wander freely while the rest of the family sat watching the dancers in the ballroom and occasionally got up for a twirl themselves. I loved the building with its ornate tiling and grandeur, appreciating the atmosphere even though I was a child. They had a small zoo in the tower back then though the animals didn’t seem happy in such confined spaces and it was closed down eventually. I had come to see one animal in particular, the Black Panther.

I would sit on a stone bench opposite its cage for ages watching him go back and forth against the bars of his cramped home. I liked it best when we were more or less alone. Then I would stand against the safety rail and try to catch his eye but the panther just carried on with his endless walk to nowhere. I concentrated really hard trying to communicate by telepathy, the innocence of youth and the savage beauty of the beast not quite on the same wavelength. With a heavy heart I bid him a fond farewell and though I never saw the panther again I can still see him in my mind.

My favourite place in the tower was the Aquarium. Down in the depths of the building and dimly lit, I walked amongst the denizens of the deep like a mini Captain Nemo. It was designed to resemble a series of caves with stalactites hanging down adding to the authenticity. In fact the aquarium had been there since 1875 and the tower was built around it. Little wonder I sensed the ghosts of the past at every turn. Some of the fish down here were as big as a Roman shield and unlike the panther they looked straight at me until I was forced to look away with a shudder. The statue of Neptune followed my progress through his kingdom with unblinking eyes…

Friday came around too quickly but with it came our last treat… a visit to the Pleasure Beach! It was our own version of Disneyland, colour, carnival and candy floss. It was one of the Seven Wonders of the World (If you take out the boring Hanging Gardens of Babylon)

With the setting sun came the illuminated lights of the rides and stalls. Primary colours pulsed around the Pleasure Beach, it was magical to a young boy that lived in a little terraced house in a place called Wigan…

Tony Topping

Quiche Love Goodbye

26 Apr

The idea of going abroad for our annual holiday was first mooted in the backroom of the Miners Arms by Kev Leigh and I was dead against it. For the last three years we had spent our holidays in the Isle of Man and a good time was always had by all. The trouble was our gang of 10 to 15 lads had now shrunk to 3, the rest of them having found a steady girlfriend in the summer of love, well this was the 70’s.The other member of our triumvirate, Tony Lowe was also keen to swap the delights of Douglas for the sun of San Antonio and so I reluctantly agreed to join them.

None of us had ever been abroad before and we didn’t know what to expect but I can honestly say it was the best holiday we ever had. The hotel we stayed in was called the Ses Savines and today would probably be described as “basic” Back then we thought it was a palace, we even had our own toilet and bathroom! We also had a mini sink which clever clogs Tony told us was called a “Bidet” It was brilliant for soaking dirty underpants in.

01668A

The hotel catered for people of different nationalities and the English were probably outnumbered but it was good fun and most of us got along great. The hotel next door was full of Marsh Greeners who we usually bumped into in the Isle of Man! They too had decided to visit pastures new and we had a great craic with them.  

The fortnight flew over and before we knew it we only had two nights left. On our penultimate night we decided to get drunk and we started the evening off by having 3 huge jugs of sangria in the hotel before setting out for the town centre. Drink after drink was downed and I began to feel a little worse for wear when Kev thought it would be a good idea to watch a street artist paint a little girls portrait. Quite a large crowd had gathered to watch the artist at work but their attention was about to swiftly turn to me.  

Suddenly without any prior warning I spewed my guts up all over Tony’s back, bright red vomit the colour of sangria. Tony shrieked and jumped out of my way as a never ending stream of red sick splashed all over the cobbled square. I can still see the horrified looks on the crowd as they backed away from the amazing human fountain. I decided my best course of action was to run away so I legged it back to our hotel whilst Tony & Kev spent the rest of the evening trying to find me in the centre.  

Back in our room I had a shower and got changed to go and meet up with them but decided to have a coffee first in a local bar. I gradually felt better and ended up chatting to some Norwegian lads about football. Two English girls were chatting to them and I ended up sat with one of them, we got on really great, so much so that the two of us ended up watching the sun rise we had chatted that long. 

10399837_1129155560486_3412241_n

The two girls were staying in our hotel and it was the first night of their holiday, I couldn’t believe my bad luck, tonight was my last one. I met up with the girls that evening and before we left I exchanged addresses with them both. After a couple of weeks of writing letters and countless phone calls one of the girls asked me to meet her parents. She lived in Formby and her Dad was a bank manager in Southport. She had already told me that she lived near some of the Liverpool’s players but I didn’t realise her parents were quite so well off. 

A date was set for the following Sunday and I was slightly rough that morning after a night out with the lads. When I looked at my only pair of shoes I discovered that they were even more distressed than me. The sole of one of them had come apart from the shoe and it flapped about like a camel’s tongue. Sugar!! Linda (the girl in question) had asked me to dress to impress. I rifled through the cupboards for some glue and managed to stick the sagging sole back, phew! 

Before I left the house I checked my reflection in the hallway mirror, maroon velvet jacket, pale blue shiny shirt with big collar, green flared trousers finished off with the patched up platform shoes. Knock em’ dead kid. 

$_35

I caught the next train to Southport and then the train to Formby and there to greet me was the lovely Linda. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and we decided to walk to her house. In fact it was a little too warm for my glued up platform shoe and it began to come apart again. “Flop Flip, Flop Flip, Flop Flip” went the noisy little b*****d with every step. I caught Linda looking down at my performing platform but she quickly looked away and gave me a nervous smile, politely ignoring it. Mind you it killed our conversation stone dead, its hard to talk when you have a shoe interrupting your every word with a “Flop” or a “Flip”  

Finally we made it to her house and it was a massive detached one with landscaped gardens, double garage and everything, they even had a baby grand piano in their living room. Her Mum greeted us at the door; she had either seen us through the window or heard my shoe from two streets away. In any case she did pause halfway down the hall to wonder what that “Flop Flip” sound was, and again it was greeted with the weakest of smiles. By the time we had moved on to meet her Dad in the house I had resorted to dragging my foot along the carpet instead of raising it up. Judging by the look on their faces I don’t think it was a very successful tactic.

I admit it wasn’t the best of starts but worse was to follow, my dream of becoming assistant manager of Barclays Bank was about to be ruined, my plan would be spoiled by a flan. 

We were sat round the table, me, Linda and the bank manager, when in comes her mum wheeling one of those hostess trolleys that you only see in Terry & June. I was impressed thinking to myself “that’s the first thing we’ll buy when we get married”

My mind wandered to afternoons down at the golf club or the tennis club depending on my mood. I might even get a pipe, yes that would make me look the part when I’m discussing bank manager’s stuff with my customers. Oh and an engraved brass plate on my office door proudly declaring “Tony Topping Banker” 

My day dreaming was broken by her Mum, my future mother in law of course, saying “Tony…Tony?” I looked up to see her standing by the record player with an LP sleeve in her hand “Do you like Quiche Lorraine?” she asked with a smile.

“Quiche Lorraine?” I said “Never heard of em’ but I like any kind of music”

The silence was deafening, and I was confused, what had I done wrong now? Linda was bright red and looked like she was going to cry, Dad left the room never to return, and Mum glared at me before putting the record on.

dd844775-6567-4c7e-bcfa-5bfe84d2198a

The three of us ate our tea in silence and I knew my romance was over. I didn’t eat much; my appetite had gone the same was as my hostess trolley. The tea wasn’t that good anyway and it included the worst egg custard I have ever tasted, it even had pieces of bacon in it! 

As for Quiche Lorraine, well they sounded like the Beach Boys to me! 

Tony Topping