Up The Royal...

On Sunday evening I went out for a walk. It was dry and clear after what had been an unseasonably warm day. I missed the sunset by a matter of moments but decided a sea view with my pint was still going to be a good idea so I walked along the seafront and then up Tankerton slopes to The Royal. The sky was blue-grey and so was the sea. As dusk fell I was reminded of those Whistler paintings of the Thames, especially as the channel lights out in the bay began to blink their red and green messages through the fading day.



Inside the Royal was almost empty. I felt slightly self-conscious as I walked up to the bar and took off my cap. There was a grey haired lady at the bar with a man of perhaps fifty. Mother and son? I ordered a pint of Late Red with a packet of beef and mustard crisps on the side and wandered over to a corner table by the window.

I drifted for some time in the appreciation of good English ale and trying to articulate to myself the exact sense in which being beside the seaside is all about the edges of things; soft edges, mergers, gradations and gradual disintegrations.

The door opened and someone came in.

"Oh 'ere we go. Have you had your lunches you two?"

It was past six. The newcomers bought drinks and blended into the conversation I now found myself listening to.

"He must be getting excited then eh? Your grandson."

"He is. He's got a job lined up out there. Fruit picking. We didn't have such things you know in my day as gap years."

"I left school when I was fifteen."

"Oh, I was seventeen and a half when I left school..."

"Lazy cow!"

"No my dad you see, he said to me go to secretarial college. So I did and they taught you shorthand and book keeping and typing and after, I was seventeen and a half when I finished, you got a better job. And I did, a much better job."

"Hah! And where's it got you? Up The Royal on a Sunday afternoon, half pissed!"