Spectrum - 1965 - Southgate County School

THE
AT THE
ENGLISH
SEASIDE
Jill Carrington
BANK HOLIDAYS, half days, school holidays — and the
English at the seaside. They arrive, hot and bedraggled,
sweating, laughing and exhausted after the long, tiresome
ride through an endless stream of traffic jams. The
children love it! The fathers hate it, mothers enjoy it and
grandparents bear it!
Eventually they are settled, completely surrounded
by picnic-baskets, sun glasses, swimsuits and all the paraphernalia
necessary to enjoy a day at the seaside. The
children are quickly undressed, and swamped in swimsuits
(passed down from Great Aunt Emily). It is their
first experience of the sea and they either love it—or hate
it. The daring ones love it and dash in and out of the
water at frequent intervals. The timid ones hate it and
scream out for mum who scampers down the beach
throwing the poor little child back into the pounding
waves and reassuring her little darling with the words,
"Don't be afraid dear, you'll soon love it," and then
returning to the family, a satisfied grin spreading over
her face as she tells grandfather that that's the way to
teach them to swim.
Father sits, unhappily, with trousers rolled up to
his knees to reveal a rather pathetic pair of pale, hairy
legs, and reads the newspaper. Grandma is engaged in
listening to the conversation of the woman, three deckchairs
further down the beach, whilst pretending to be
completely unconcerned. Grandfather can see through
the act! He wishes desperately that they had never been
invited to the seaside in the first place. He never did like
the sea, even as a child .... He glances further down the
beach, crowds of people, donkeys (ugh! The filthy
creatures), and children (didn't even like them much).
Overwhelmed in self-pity, though slightly consoled at
seeing all the other suffering grandparents, he slowly
dozes off to sleep.
Around midday the beach becomes even more
crowded, until it is insufferably hot and almost impossible
to breathe. The families, once coldly apart, are packed
close together, like sardines, as more and more people
squirm their way into the ever decreasing plots of sand.
The sea is packed to the limit and swimming becomes
an effort. Fat men with stomachs bulging out of their
swimming trunks, splutter, cough and are eventually
pulled under with the rest of the writhing throng.
Then—the moment every father dreads most! —the
ice cream man arrives on the scene. "Ice creams, Only
sixpence each!" he yells. The children come running up
to Dad and ask hurriedly if they can have one. Father
laughs, and with a sickly smile, jokingly asks if anyone
would like one. Immediately, his own family, and
children from about another three surrounding families
all yell, "Yes please!" The ice-creams are bought,
dropped, recovered and dropped again before they are
finally safely secured in people's stomachs. Grandfather
dozes off once more, and Grandma suddenly realises,
with anxiety, that she has missed the last three conversations
of the women in front! Mum decides that it is
about time Father had a paddle with the children, and
amidst protest and cries of astonishment, he is dragged
down to the formidable sea. Snatches of conversation
such as, "You're worse than the children," or "You'rs
old enough to know better," can be heard drifting across
the beach. And then the 'Punch and Judy' show. Father
is roped in once more whilst Mother stays and talks
to Grandma.
At last the day draws to an end. The pier lights up
and the beach begins to clear. The day's excitement, toil
and trouble is over. The children half asleep are carried,
too tired to protest, to the car. "Such a delightful day,
my dear," says Grandma and Grandfather reluctantly
agrees. As the children drop off to sleep in the car,
Father feels pleased, even satisfied. He has brought his
family to the beach—but he is glad it is all over until
next bank-holiday.
ORPHEUS
WITH
HIS
LOOT
Moira Hollingsworth
Delia Hopkins
Oh may a pestilence fall upon the orchestra,
May the hairs of their bows fall out
And their strings uncoil from their very pegs and wither
and decay.
May famine and disease pour upon them as the
Insalinous waters of a river rush down upon the
inconstant, yea even aggressive sea.
And may woodworm and lice inhabit the double bass,
Oh Zeus, send down thy thunderbolt from heaven
And strike the very bellies of the 'cellos.
And may the flute melt as ice under the noonday sun.
And may the clarinets splinter and disintegrate.
And may the black and white teeth of the unsegregated
keyboard
Gaping through jaws of black wood
Be mercilessly pulled out. And may C sharp be D flat
for evermore.
Then shall no more discords rise up among the pillars
and arches
Of our Gothic Hall. Then shall crack no more
The light bulbs and the window panes and the glass in
the doors,
Yea, those very doors that lead to the world of sanity.
Oh ye gods, descend from Olympus and strike at the
very heart of the orchestra, to silence it for ever.
For the players have transgressed exceedingly in the
eyes of man, nay even woman
And great must be their punishment.
SB
17