Name: Christine Paice
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Age: 54
Suburb: Kiama
Occupation/title: poet
Holiday location: The Great British Seaside Holiday
It’s 1970 and we all piled in to the Hillman Minx, our family car shaped like a tank. Three in the front, four in the back, no seat belts and our optimistic legs in shorts for the first time that summer.
Dad, always Dad, driving on the long serious trips, and stopping in a small town none of us knew so he could study the maps spread on the Hillman’s hot bonnet.
We were always allowed to take a friend and we sat in the back, over excited, squeaking with happiness.
‘‘Be quiet you lot or we’ll miss the turn off.’’ ‘‘First one to see the sea gets an ice-cream.’’ ‘‘If anyone feels sick then say so I can stop the car in time.’’ ‘‘For goodness sake why didn’t you say stop?’’
The great glittering English sea.
Hanging like a jewel at the bottom of the world, our world, for three glorious weeks the sea belonged to us.
Two unsteady scoops of rich vanilla ice cream balanced in a cone, and at the top a glistening chocolate flake. Looks like pooh, tastes like pooh and we run giggling everywhere under grey skies.
Into the sea hobbling over hard English pebbles, then up to your knees in freezing water.
‘‘Don’t splash me! I said, don’t splash me!’’ ‘‘Get your shoulders under! Get them under! Just do it!’’
The silence at night of the deep walled cottage, unlike anywhere else.
The night sky full of stars, special holiday stars that we never normally saw because we never normally looked.
The happiness on my parents’ faces, no one from home to bother them. Sending postcards on wet days in town and eating vanilla fudge and more ice cream.
Lunch in a department store where we didn’t have to eat our peas. Even the rain’s exciting when you’re on holiday.