You know how it is when you come back from having a couple of days away, people are interested. They ask you where you went. If you had a good time.
When I told them we’d been to Weymouth for a surprise weekend, the reaction was generally that of masked disappointment with the subtext “Oh. ..so he only took you to Weymouth..hmm…that’s a bit crap.”
It’s as though they were hoping for Cornwall, or Brittany or Bali. Actually they were really hoping I’d been somewhere they had visited, of which they have fond memories; a cloudless summer, a fabulous beach, maybe a Kirrin Island look-alike that they could swim to at low tide.
Instead of all that, they said “Yeah. I remember going there as a kid with mum and dad, year after year. Have they still got the trampolines?”
They didn’t say “It was wonderful.” or “It was really good.” Their unsaid words indicated there weren’t too many happy memories. Caravan holidays, no doubt. Continue reading “A cracking time”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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