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My then boyfriend, now forty one years married husband decided at the rather mature age of seventeen years old it was time I met that vast expanse of blue water which becomes most children's friend on their family seaside holiday, wrote Mary Goddard.
The family part of my life, before Pat arrived, is some thing I choose to leave in a well-hidden secret compartment at the back of my mind's wardrobe. The key was buried a long time ago.
Food at that typically English seaside resort tasted wonderful. He escorted me into a restaurant, the waiter arrived and we sampled the haute cuisine experience of fish and chips. The weather was cold, we shivered through to our bones and the wind whipped through my cheap, but cosy, coat.
The trains were running down the main street, their bright paint work a stark contrast to the dark grey sky. The amusement arcades blasted out the latest Beatles hit. The mini-skirted girls, and boys in teddy suits crowded into the coffee bars to stop the wind biting their extremely exposed knees and thin clothes.
You read in novels of men who spent money on their girls, wives, and family, rather than the nearest pub or bookies as was the norm in my neighbourhood. I could not believe that one of those elusive butterflies would fly into my garden and stop on my particular pansy.
I looked into a shop window and saw the reflection of two happy smiling people. Was it possible my view could be the start of a better future?
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