
This is were it always started, Victoria Coach Station, usually in August and always early in the morning, I’m talking about the Annual holiday to Ramsgate for the family, Mum, Dad, little Sister and a young OMG, short trousers, school cap and best blazer. We would journey up to Victoria by bus as Dad worked for London Transport putting up bus stops and shelters so he had what was known as a ‘sticky’, a staff pass for free travel on the buses and tube. Suitcases were not a problem as we only used to take one or two, unlike today when I and MrsOMG require a few coolies and pack elephant just for a dodgy weekend in Brighton. Upon arrival Mum would take us kids to the cafeteria, a place full of gleaming machines, hissing and belching steam into an atmosphere already full of smoke fom cigarettes, pipes, cigars and from griddles burning industrial amounts of lard as the bangers and rashers sizzled their calories and cholesterol into a public blissfully unaware of the terrors to come once the funsuckers got their claws into the nations favourite start to the day. While we kids were being squeezed between large ladies all wearing their best frocks and coats, together with the obligatory hat, Dad was away sorting out the tickets for the coach that would take us to, what was to me, was an exotic location on the Kent coast, Ramsgate. When we were ready, Dad would bang his empty tea cup down and with the words, ‘Right, let’s get weaving,’ would march us out to join the queue for the East Kent coach to the seaside and paradise.
Continue reading “Portal to Paradise”
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