Sax on the balcony

It’s been quite a week. My last post managed not to mention the C word at all, instead looking back fondly at loud nights and sticky carpets. There was a sad lack of loo rolls and pasta in the UK this time last week, but as I write, we are now going back to the type of rationing not seen since the Fifties. Here at Big Word Towers, we are the proud owners of 8 actual toilet rolls, a couple of packets of kitchen roll and endless supplies of newspapers. One way or another, the five derrières residing here will make it through. And who needs pasta anyway?

But as I often say, let other pens dwell on guilt and misery[1]. There’s plenty to worry about, if we choose to, lots to question and second-guess. The truth is, none of us know what’s going to happen. As I write, I’ve just heard that all schools and colleges will be closing on Friday afternoon. This may mean that my last child at primary school won’t have a Year 6 play, reward trips or sit her SATS at school. Today, as I watched the children running around on the field playing football, swinging off the gym trail and rushing round in the bushes, I realised that this might be almost the last time for us. I’ve spent the last 13 years at that school and it could be coming to an end, abruptly, unexpectedly. In the grand scheme of things, however, this is not big news. I’ll feel a pang on Friday, but there are other more important things to dwell on.

If you turn your eyes away from scenes of people fighting each other in supermarkets for the last packet of tagliatelle, you’ll see heart-warming examples of community spirit, compassion and kindness. Last week, I heard a story on the radio that warmed my heart. A music teacher in Italy, confined to barracks as everyone is, came out on to his balcony and played, “Ode to Joy” on the saxophone to lift his neighbours’ spirits. You can see him here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vVmOuQMsrQM. In the last few days, Italians all over the country have come out on to their balconies to sing, play an instrument or wave and smile at their neighbours. The Italians are a fiercely community-minded nation, big on family, celebration and good food. La passeggiata, the traditional walk in the evening has been replaced by community singing and playing from balconies, and by the posting of encouraging messages.

Closer to home, I’ve been encouraged by the many Facebook groups set up in our village and nearby to help the elderly, isolated and vulnerable keep afloat at a very difficult time. Yesterday afternoon, I read a post on Facebook which made me smile and feel emotional all at the same time. The lovely Christina Johnston (you may remember her from this blog: https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/hitting-high-notes.html) is a self-employed opera singer. All her concerts have been cancelled until September. Rather than wallowing in self-pity, or letting fear rule her life, she has chosen instead to share her beautiful voice with others who can’t get out. She’ll be singing outside Mill Lane Nursing and Residential Home in Felixstowe this afternoon and then again in Ipswich. She has offered to sing outside any nursing home or establishment where elderly or vulnerable people are self-isolating. She sings like an angel and she is generously sharing her gift with those who are stuck indoors. Here’s a link to her singing – enjoy it and feel free to share. Beautiful things are rare in our world at the moment and they need to be celebrated. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8za2_4T00jM

The good has to outweigh the bad, or else who are we? What makes us human? As I was about to hit, "publish", another story of kindness popped up. Our local greengrocer in Woodbridge (that lovely one on the way to the Thoroughfare, for the benefit of local readers) is not only offering free local deliveries, but took on all the stock from the Friends' (PTA) group at a local primary school for resale, saving them from a massive loss. 

We don’t know what’s going to happen. These are frightening and uncertain times. But if we can focus on the good – the unselfish, the giving, the altruistic amongst us – we will get through this, together. 

---

[1] Not my own line. It’s Jane Austen. But a quote from one of the classics adds such a touch of class to one’s blog, don’t you think?

A Middle-Aged Mother in the Mosh Pit

Pre-marriage and motherhood, a big part of my life involved going to gigs. When I worked at Exeter University in the late Eighties and early Nineties, we got the chance to buy reduced tickets for all kinds of performers. Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine (remember them?) Joan Armatrading, Lenny Henry, Jasper Carrott and many more. I still kick myself for not turning out on a wet Wednesday night to see Primal Scream. That was probably their last gig before they hit the big time. Sigh.

Once I got married and moved back to Essex, we went to even more gigs. It was brilliant. The Number 20 bus at the top of our road took us to Walthamstow Bus Station, then it was one stop to Blackhorse Road on the Tube to our final destination, The Standard, sticky-carpeted palace of cheap beer, loud bands and much enjoyment. We used to go with a huge group of friends, two of whom were in bands of their own. We’d have loud nights, resonant with riffs and riotous laughter, then we'd roll home on the night bus with our ears ringing and reeking of stale smoke. In the early Nineties, it was fine to light up anywhere you fancied and lots of people did. Ending up with a hole burned in your denim jacket was a badge of honour.

The same group of friends used to go to the Cambridge Folk Festival where we saw some excellent bands. I was known for my ability to get right to the front of the stage at any gig. I remember standing at the very front of Number Two Stage, gigantically pregnant with my first child while a very loud blues outfit (Robert Randolph and the Family Band) gave it their all. Here they are in action, just as good as I remember. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2DE9JO9Lo0w.

Such a dose of loud bluesy soul and gospel in utero clearly had an effect on my eldest son. Every afternoon at nap time, I’d put on a blues CD and watch him nod off. He once fell asleep in front of a 20-foot speaker at a festival. 16 years on, he is a massive metal-head, just as his father was when we met at Sixth Form Centre aged 16. He went to his first gig recently (at Brixton Academy – start as you mean to go on) wearing my husband’s treasured denim jacket, covered with patches and badges from all his gigs way back when.

Now obviously as his mother, I am a bit of an embarrassment to him and he’s shocked to hear that I used to live another sort of life before I had him. That said, we do have some great conversations about music and it’s been lovely seeing him getting into some of the bands I like. He’s introduced me to a few along the way too as well as joining a band of his own (he’s the drummer).

A couple of weeks ago, he came back from work and mumbled, “Like, James’ band[1] is playing soon. I got some tickets. Do you want to come?” James is his boss.

The gig was at Old Jet, a music venue at the old RAF base near us. It’s probably one of the most inaccessible venues ever, but it’s well worth schlepping across the airfield in the dark. I was offered earplugs on arrival, but waved them away. Once we were in, the following conversation ensued:

Son: “Yeah, look, no offence, you’d better go and stand a long way away from me. I don’t want people knowing you’re my mother.”

Me: “None taken. I’m not standing next to you. It’ll cramp my style if I’m seen with a 16-year old boy.”

Son: “Oh. Right. Yeah. See you.”

Me: “Not if I see you first. No offence.”

Well, it was brilliant. I was right at the front, natch, with my middle-aged eardrums unprotected and ready to absorb as many decibels as the band cared to throw at me. And believe me, they were LOUD! 3 lead guitars, a bass and the drummer. It took me right back. Once it was all over, we rolled back to the car, across miles of unlit runway, our ears ringing. It was just like the old days. I couldn’t hear properly for three days. There was no chance of anyone burning a hole in my gilet with their cigarette, unless I’d gone up to them outside and specifically asked them to. Apart from that, and the lack of unexpectedly adhesive floor coverings (oh, and my tendonitis and achy knee) I felt 19 again.

As someone once said, “Where words leave off, music begins.” So let's leave it there, a middle-aged woman with ringing ears and a 16-year old with blood blisters on his fingers from a 2-hour drum practice session. That mother and son nearly 17 years on from the final gig of the night at Cambridge, still rocking out, albeit with a little more distance between them. But with a whole lifetime of earplugs, drum solos and sticky carpets to come.

---

[1] They’re called Brigade. Check them out here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Brigade_(band)

A load of old rubbish

I grew up in the Seventies. In some ways, it’s a miracle any of my generation are still here. Puffing on fags was widespread and no-one had any namby-pamby ideas about protecting children from second-hand smoke. Seat belts were a rather louche extra feature and our playgrounds featured high, steep slides, witch’s hat roundabouts that offered an exciting opportunity to injure yourself and of course hard concrete on which to fall. Apart from a huge graze on my leg from being dragged round by the roundabout on concrete and a few bruises from falling off swings, I emerged relatively unscathed from my Playground Years. If you had any sense, you hung on tight! 

That said, there was lots of good stuff around too. Drinks mostly came in glass containers which you took back to the shop and got money for. You could buy quite a lot with a penny at the sweet shop. Helicopter parenting was several generations in the future, so we all wandered around or went off on our bikes without anyone worrying about it. We lived by various government campaigns designed to keep us alive in spite of our surroundings.

The Tufty Club was big news, teaching us all road safety. “Never Go With Strangers” (made in 1971) was shown in the school hall. With a selection of dodgy facial hair, weird hats and smoked glasses, the actors in the film did a good job of making sure none of us fell for that old chestnut, “Come and see my puppies." The film makers even included some scenes in a Seventies playground, witch’s hat and all. Click here to go back in time.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEjnmhBJA1w

The Keep Britain Tidy campaign was also dinned into our heads. To this day, I cannot let rubbish fall out of my car, my handbag or anywhere else without running to pick it up. It was one of those things you just didn’t do, along with going with strangers and running out into the road. So, here is the question for this week, and it’s a genuine one. Please feel free to reply. When did it become acceptable to drop rubbish instead of putting it in the bin? I’ve witnessed so many people driving along, opening their car window and hurling their rubbish out. Why? Why would you do this? I simply don’t understand. Where do they think it’s going to go?

I’m writing this on Saturday 29^th February, a wet, grey, rainy day in Suffolk. What inspired me? A post by a friend on Facebook. You can see it on my page. A wonderful chap, Jason Alexander, has become a local hero with his social enterprise, Rubbish Walks. He doesn’t have to go out in the wind and the rain picking up other people’s cigarette butts and crisp packets, but he does just the same. The picture that inspired this blog was of him and his team, young and old, outside a shop in St Peter’s Street, Ipswich. It’s pouring, but they’re all out with their rubbish sacks picking up stuff that other people decided to drop. You can see Jason in action below with a staggering number of cigarette butts. He picked all those up with his hands. Imagine that.

Smoke if you must. Eat fast food in the car if that’s your thing. But please don’t drop the evidence on the ground, or hurl it out of your car window. It’s bad for the environment, it’s deeply disrespectful and it’s not fair that people like Jason should have to give up so much of their time cleaning up after you.

My generation were exposed to so much anti-litter publicity that I think we got the impression that dropping a sweetie wrapper was punishable by death. Granted, fast food was limited to Findus Crispy pancakes and the odd Wimpy, and there just wasn’t so much “stuff” around. There’s absolutely no excuse, though, for dropping litter. Let’s give Jason and his team a break.

You can find out more about Rubbish Walks here: https://rubbishwalks.co.uk/   

Sitting in the orchard with Steph

Twenty-six years ago, I left Exeter, where I’d lived for nearly ten years, to move back to Essex and get married. It was an exciting time, but my emotions were mixed. I was leaving a place I loved, a job I enjoyed and friends who were so embedded in my heart that packing up and saying goodbye was almost too painful to bear. On the other hand, I was looking forward to spending the rest of my life with the man I loved, with no need to spend all our disposable income on phone calls and train journeys from one side of the country to the other.

The first year was very hard. I missed the place and my friends with a physical ache. Every weekend I could, I’d head back to see them all, but inevitably as time went on, my visits grew less frequent. We stayed in touch by phone (this was pre mobiles) and by visits, but I was working full-time in London and we were in our first year of marriage, so as time went by, although we stayed friends, that constant contact slowed down.

Over the last twenty-six years, I’ve realised how fortunate I am. I’ve got friends who live hundreds of miles away and might only see me once every ten years. In spite of that, when we meet again, it’s like not a minute has gone by.

Last September, one of my oldest and dearest friends from those days got married to a lovely man. I was so excited at the thought of going back down to Devon again. We all met up for a meal on Friday night at a pub we used to go to. It hadn't changed, but I found driving through the city a strange and surreal experience. Road names and pubs and areas which were as familiar to me as my own name were still there, but threaded through with new roads, new houses, new everything. It was a bit like landing on Mars but finding your entire village replicated there.

The wedding was wonderful. It was a joyous day. I saw some friends who I can’t have met for about twenty-eight years. We hugged and starting talking at top speed about the old days. Even though lots of water had gone under it, the bridge remained unchanged.

Waking up the next morning, I gazed out of my window on to the shouting green of the Devon hills. I’d forgotten how much I loved them. I’d also forgotten how narrow Devonian lanes can be. Living here in rural East Suffolk, I spend a lot of my time driving down muddy roads and either pulling over or driving backwards to let another vehicle through. These, however, are like the M25 compared to the narrow ribbons of tarmac upon which I presently found myself. It was just after breakfast time and the whole day stretched ahead of me. I texted an old friend. “What are you up to today?” “Nothing much,” came the reply. “Why?”

Half an hour later, I was driving into a tiny village in Dartmoor National Park. My friend and her husband were doing up a house they’d been left by her grandmother, which I hadn’t seen for years. After the grand tour, we ambled out to the orchard her great-great-grandfather had planted at the beginning of the last century. It was one of those afternoons you remember forever. The late summer sunlight filtered through the apple trees on to the tufty grass studded with windfalls. In the distance, I could hear cows mooing. A wood pigeon flapped by.

We sat and talked, and laughed, and reminisced, and were silent. It was beautiful. It reminded me of things I’d loved and experiences which had shaped me. Before I left, we picked bags and bags of Ponsfords, a rare apple which originated in Devon in the nineteenth century. At home, I made jelly with them which we’re still eating now. I make apple jelly every year, but this was different. The Ponsfords produced a rich, deep, glowing jelly like nothing I’ve ever seen. Held up to the light, each jar seemed incandescent, ripe with promise. It tasted pretty good too.

It’s good to look back and to realise that however far in the past good experiences were, they are still with us. It’s a long way to Devon, but I’d travel a lot further than that to see my friends again.

Images by Pixabay

Hair Toss, Check My Nails, Baby How You Feelin,?

It’s been a rough week. I won’t lie to you. Thank goodness for writing, which always helps. Last week’s blog, Christine Keeler’s Eyelashes, hasn’t done what all my other pieces do. I think about them, write them, publish them and let them amble out into the world by themselves. Christine won’t leave. Like a shy child hiding behind its mother’s skirts, she’s still very much on my mind. The very last scene in “The Trial of Christine Keeler” just won’t go away. Out of jail, pretty much friendless, still young, still beautiful, Christine walks into a club and pushes her way through the crowd on to the dance floor. She dances with abandon, her eyes closed, her arms up in the air, not for attention, but for herself. I found this scene incredibly poignant as that’s the last image the viewer has of her. Not the tired and ravaged face of a woman who has had to fight all her life, or the hunched figure walking down the street, head bowed, or the worn-out woman dying of a pulmonary embolism. A final hurrah before the millstones of the establishment grind her down.

Driving back from gymnastics with my 11-year old on Monday night, Lizzo came on the radio. “I love her!” my daughter exclaimed, turning up the volume. “She doesn’t care what anyone thinks about her.” We sang along (me badly, her well) to Good As Hell, a fine track. I watched The Brits on Tuesday night and there she was again, dancing, singing and radiating positivity. I sat there, beaming ear to ear. Why? Not just because I like her (I do), not just because her songs are unbelievably catchy (they are). It’s because she is who she is and she is comfortable with that. Her backing dancers are called The Big Grrrls. I’ll leave that there for a minute.

Lizzo is big on body positivity. Nearly every interview you read about her will mention that. Should it have to? I think not. Who cares? She sings beautifully, she’s a great role model. Does it matter what she weighs? Reading through the papers, apparently it does.

Since I started writing this blog, I have posted it first thing on a Thursday morning, every week. I’ve never been late. I was kind to myself last night (cold coming on, very tired) and decided to finish and post it this morning. Funnily enough, just as I was putting it together, a post popped up on Facebook. It was from a person I like and respect. She is a doctor, has two young children and is incredibly eloquent and principled. She was furious as what she described as: “Utter, misogynistic bulls**t. In a world where people are feeling so inadequate already this is just toxic! Nice job, patriarchy- well done for ensuring she never shirks her caring responsibilities for one moment.”

The post which had enraged her was an update from a couple called Sharny and Julius. I’d never heard of them. They are a “fitspo” couple who post to their followers about their fitness programme. There is absolutely nothing wrong with that. Fitness and health are something to aspire to. However, on the latest post, the following words appeared, about Sharny, who is a mother of six:

“Instead of raging or hiding, she has the energy to outplay her kids with boundless joy until they are laying on their backs, completely exhausted, deeply contented and infinitely loved.

Instead of headaches and arguments, she’s still got (lots of) energy for loving after the kids go to bed, and lots of time for meaningful work after her profoundly satisfied hubby drops off to sleep.”

You could look at this as a testimonial for the fitness programme FitMum which Sharny and Julius run. It’s obviously working and that’s great. However, what is deeply concerning about these words, to me, and to my friend, is that they underline the constant feelings of not being good enough, too tired, too fat, too worn out to be all the things a woman wants to be. I am delighted that Sharny feels so energetic. I’ve researched her page and it makes me happy that she stands proudly in a bikini with her stretch marks on show. She’s birthed six children and doesn’t pretend to be perfect. But that second paragraph concerns me deeply. After a full day of working and parenting, she loves her hubby till he’s profoundly satisfied, then when he’s nodded off, she addresses her meaningful work. Is it just me or does that have an echo of The Stepford Wives?

“Instead of”. Instead of – what? Ordinary mortals, juggling work, families, housework, responsibilities could read this and think “Why can’t I be like that? What’s wrong with me?” This world is not short of messages telling women they’re not good enough. I’ve got a headache as I write. I have no energy. But I know that I am a good wife and mother and that I do my best. What about a woman struggling with depression, or low self-esteem, or an abusive relationship? What might she think, reading these words?

And finally, I can’t sign off without mentioning the death of Caroline Flack. You won’t have to spend much time googling before you find examples of the kind of toxic, cruel, abusive journalism that surely contributed to this woman feeling that she had no alternative but to end her life. Lighting the fire last night, crumpling up balls of newspaper to get it going, I read a news snippet by a syndicated national woman columnist about Caroline Flack which made my blood boil. Her entire page was thinly veiled criticism, snide remarks and downright unkindness. Isn’t life hard enough already? I am writing these words with passion. I am aware that some of my readers may not agree with me. But that’s fine. We live in a democracy and I would be happy to hear your thoughts.

Image from Pixabay

From that young girl dancing in a club with her eyes closed and her arms outstretched, to Lizzo owning the stage at the Brits, to Caroline Flack alone and desperate, these are all women. All women who make choices and who have fought against prejudice and unkindness and barriers. As I said last week, I want a better world for my daughter. If her role models are people like Lizzo who wears what she wants and is honest, I will be a happy woman.

How am I feelin? Cross. But words can change the world and I’m darned if I’m not going to keep swimming against the tide.

Christine Keeler's eyelashes

I’ve been watching the BBC’s Sunday night drama, “The Trial of Christine Keeler”. As the story unfolded, I was gripped. I was born in 1966, only three years after the Profumo Affair, but Christine had been on the periphery for me for years. What did I know about her? She was young, incredibly beautiful, usually described as a call girl or a model and seemingly irresistible to powerful men. It turns out I knew next to nothing.

Perhaps because the screenwriter was a woman (Amanda Coe), we saw the story of an abused, malnourished child growing into adulthood in a world where power was firmly in the hands of men, mostly rich, privileged ones. This is a narrative only too familiar in our supposedly enlightened times. Me Too, Time’s Up, Don’t Look Away – the list goes on.

There’s a very short scene in one episode where Christine finds herself in prison. Standing in front of a female prison officer, she gasps in shock and pain as the woman leans forward and rips off her false eyelashes. It’s a tragic foreshadowing of the many humiliations yet to come. Earlier in the series, another set of false eyelashes goes missing, this time in the marital bed of John Profumo. It’s sort of OK, because she finds them, but it really isn’t because nowhere is safe. Just because Mrs Profumo is away, just because she’s young and pretty, just because she’s mixing in exalted company doesn’t mean she isn’t going to take a long, slow, agonising fall, well-documented by the intrusive lenses of Fleet Street.

I put on “Life on Mars” again recently and that’s a hard watch. For someone like me, born in the Sixties into a world of routine sexism, homophobia and racism, the scene where Liz the WPC walks into the smoky room filled with leering male police officers felt like a slap in the face. That’s what it was like. If you were a girl, you were fair game. I’m lucky. I’ve never been raped or sexually abused, but I’ve been groped on the Tube more times than I can count. Smutty jokes, innuendo and the underlying knowledge that no-one would listen if you told were absorbed by girls of my generation, almost without question.

Abi Morgan’s legal drama, “The Split” is back. I loved the first series and I couldn’t wait to watch the first episode on Tuesday evening. One of the many things I like about it is that the main characters are all women and they don’t play out that old crowd-pleasing trope, the Two-Dimensional Female Character. We see them at work and at home, doing their best to balance home responsibilities and a career. Infidelity, bereavement, divorce, disappointment, the glass ceiling – it’s all there, but our female protagonists get up in the morning, apply their work face and put in a full day.

There was one scene in Episode One which for me evoked those feelings of the girl born in the Sixties. Three of the four women, mother and two daughters, are now working together at a law firm. The third daughter comes into the office to share exciting news. We see them laughing loudly, throwing their heads back and broadcasting their joy. However, we’re shown this happy scene through the lens of the male gaze. Zander, the Senior Partner is standing in his office. “This place is going to pot,” he mutters, taking off his glasses and staring angrily at the laughing women.

Immediately, I felt that old shock of fear. The men aren’t happy! What’s going to happen? Abi Morgan is far too good a writer for this to be a coincidence. Dismissed by several papers (none of which I have any truck with) as “soapy”, “The Split” holds a mirror up to our society and sadly, part of that reflection has to include the past.

From Christine and her false eyelashes, WPC Liz and her struggles every day through routine sexism to the Defoe women and their complex lives, none of it’s easy. Thank God that my daughter will never have to plough her way through this toxic brew in the same way that my generation did.

Every generation has a new issue with which to contend. Global warming, cyber-bullying and single-use plastic pollution weren’t things we Sixties kids had to deal with. I hope and pray that the girls of my daughter’s generation won’t ever feel that shock of fear and apprehension that I’ve felt three times this week.

As someone said back then, what’s so funny about peace, love and understanding? Search me.

Memory ......

No, not the song from “Cats.” Although feel free to warble it as you read this week’s episode. “Mid-niiiiiiight, not a sound from the pavement. Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone.” And so on, and so forth.

As I’ve mentioned before, I often wonder what the inside of my head looks like. I suspect it’s rather like an attic with mysterious chests half-full of treasure, half-full of tut, piles of dusty papers, toys and books I can’t bear to get rid of plus a whole heap of random stuff. Quite often these days (and I think this writing process is the reason why), one of those memories will shuffle forward and tap insistently on my forehead (from the inside) saying, “Remember me? Would I do for next Thursday’s blog?”

Yes. This week you, long-held memory, are getting your day in the sun.

Before we get to my memory, however, let's go a bit further back into history and remember the millions who died in the Holocaust. It was International Holocaust Remembrance Day on 27th January and today on More Than Writers, a blog  for which I write, Philippa Linton wrote a touching piece on a book she'd read about a 15-year old Latvian Jewish girl. You can read it here: https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2020/02/no-happy-ending-but-love-is-stronger.html. It really made me think. I am free to write, to think, to go about my daily life, but so many are not. I have a memory from 30 years ago which has stayed in my mind and I chose to write about it. No-one is going to shame me, or punish me, or imprison me for talking about what I would like to. I believe that the price of that freedom is a good memory - we should never shy away from the parts of our history (and, sadly, our present) which are hard to look at without strong emotion. As writers, we have unique power to remind, to restore and to rouse. The pen really is mightier than the sword.

Let me take you to a beach in North Devon. It must have been about 30 years ago. My then-boyfriend, possibly fiancé, had come down to see me for the weekend. From 1985 until 1993, I lived in Exeter and I loved it and the friends I made there more than I can tell you. By the time we got married in 1993, we’d spent 8 years on our long-distance courtship between Devon and Essex, considerably enriching National Express, British Rail and BT in the process.

On this particular day, we were either in Woolacombe or Croyde Bay. Both have vast expanses of golden sands and are much beloved by surfers. It was a beautiful day. We probably brought a picnic. I can’t remember what we ate, what we talked about or what we did. But one memory has stayed with me as clear as day. At the time, then a writer in the making, I remember thinking to myself, “Interesting. I won’t forget that.” And I never have, although along the way a ton of other information has dropped out of my brain, never to be seen again.

A mini bus drew up behind us in the car park. Out jumped a large family group with the usual paraphernalia of a day on the beach. Picnic, drinks, towels, buckets and spades. There were three men, three women and quite a few children. The women had their hair in long plaits down their backs, two were wearing glasses and all had a neat navy-blue headscarf on their heads, secured by hair grips. On their left hands, plain gold wedding rings gleamed in the summer sunlight. The men all had beards and had matching wedding rings. 

Rugs were put down on the sand, pushchairs were unloaded and assembled and everyone had lunch. After a while, the men got up and took all the children down towards the sea. It was a long walk as the tide was out. The ladies tidied up the picnic for about ten minutes. Then they kicked off their shoes and started giggling. The sound of their laughter was infectious, joyful.

 They were all wearing plain dark-coloured skirts, white tops and dark tights. It wasn’t your typical British beach summer garb. I watched as they started running around, chasing each other and letting out peal after peal of joyous laughter. I sat there smiling. I thought, “I’ll remember this.”

That picture of three laughing women kicking off their shoes and forgetting their family responsibilities for a few minutes has stayed with me all these years. I never knew why, but perhaps their very difference, otherness stuck in my mind. They didn't dress like everyone else, but they were like everyone else. They had the freedom to travel, to eat and laugh together as so many have not in the past. Golden sands, blue skies, freedom, the tang of ozone in the air and three ladies laughing like children.

Memory. As it goes, that’s a good one.