Let's Go to the Seaside... in Detling

My husband is a couch potato.  Now that I’m writing full-time, it’s probably fair to that I’m a computer potato… if there is such a thing. That said, my loyal hound keeps me fairly active although, these days, I walk her without Mr V.  As I head off to Trosley Country Park, my husband heads off to the lounge. And as I exercise with Molly Muddles, my husband puts his index finger through a few push-ups changing channels on the remote control in a quest to find a football match going on somewhere in the world. Lately I’ve started to wonder just what we have in common… which doesn’t bode well when you’re meant to share retirement together. Oh my God, did I just say the “R” word?  H-e-l-p-p-p…
          ‘We no longer do things together,’ I complained.
          ‘Foul!  Didn’t you see that ref?  Don’t you have EYES?’
          ‘Shall we go to Dubai this year?’
          ‘I have no idea why that IDIOT was signed by Manchester United.’
          ‘Did you hear me?’
          ‘Did you see that? Un-be-LIEVE-able!’
          ‘I said, did you hear me?’
          ‘Oh go on then, if you’re making. But not too much sugar.’
          Such are our conversations.  Or, even, lack of conversations.
          ‘God, I miss skiing,’ said Eleanor, home from drama school.  ‘I can’t wait to graduate so we can get back to the slopes.’
          Before I even knew what I was doing, my fingers were flying over the keys of my iPhone googling best places to ski at Easter.  Seconds later I’d found a hotel with ski-in-ski-out access to The Three Valleys where, theoretically, you can ski 365 days of the year.
          ‘Let’s do it,’ I said, impulsively.
          ‘Really?’
          ‘Really,’ I nodded, before trotting off to find my husband lying horizontal in his favourite place.  Inches from the television. ‘Fancy going skiing?’
          ‘Yes.’
          ‘Fantastic!  I’ll book it right now.’
          ‘Sorry?  Book what?’
          ‘Didn’t you hear me?  Skiing… you’re coming?’
          ‘Oh, ah… no, thanks.  I will… one day.  But not yet.’
          Eleanor frowned, but made no comment as I went ahead and booked a room for two with a view of fir trees, sunshine and snow.
          And then my cousin suggested we take our daughters on a girly week to Dubai.
          ‘That place has been on my Living List for so long,’ I said, wistfully.
          ‘Fancy it?’
          ‘Yes!’
          Wow, roll on November!
          Eleanor’s frown lines deepened and, without my knowing, she went off to find my husband.  I soon got wind something was up when she tried talking to him during a football match.
          ‘WILL YOU LISTEN TO ME!’ she yelled across the background roar of the crowd.
          And suddenly the volume went off and my husband came to find me.
          ‘I think we need to start doing more things together,’ he suggested.
          ‘Such as?’ I said, waspishly.
          ‘Let’s do something off-the-cuff.  Something spontaneous.’
          ‘What… like combusting?’ I quipped.
          ‘This weekend, let’s go to the seaside.’
          ‘At the moment, we have Storm Gareth,’ I pointed out.
          ‘So?’ Mr V shrugged.  ‘We’ll wrap up warm and watch the waves crash, get wet and dry off in a cosy pub eating fish and chips.’
          Good God.  Was this my couch-potato husband talking?
          ‘You’re on,’ I replied quickly, before he could change his mind.
          Which is how we ended up going to Broadstairs yesterday.  Or, rather, not going to Broadstairs, because there was a bad accident on the motorway, and everything was at a standstill.  Eventually, Mr V found an exit and we swerved off towards Sittingbourne.
          Eleanor, sitting in the back, piped up.  ‘Is there sea in Sittingbourne?’
          ‘No,’ said my husband, ‘but we could travel past Sittingbourne and pick up Sheerness.  See what that’s like.’
          ‘How far away?’ asked Eleanor.
          ‘The Sat-Nav says we could be there in forty-five minutes.’
          ‘It must be wrong,’ I said, pointing straight ahead. ‘Look over there, on the horizon.  There’s the sea and it’s a beautiful blue.’
          ‘Er, I think that’s a large warehouse roof, Mum,’ said Eleanor.
          ‘Oh no, look, the Sat-Nav says there’s more traffic jams coming up,’ I pointed to the screen.  ‘Let’s do something else, instead.  You suggested off-the-cuff,’ I said to Mr V.  ‘What is there to do in Sittingbourne?’
          ‘Get on Google,’ said my husband to Eleanor.
          ‘Doddington Place Gardens,’ she replied.  ‘Sounds nice. Let’s go there.  Oh, hang on… it’s closed today.’
          ‘Look,’ I said, leaning forward and pointing to a sign.  ‘It says there’s a country park coming up.  Let’s go there.  We can have a great time exploring a new place, and there’s bound to be a café to visit afterwards.’ I sat back in my seat, happily thinking of our own gorgeous local country park full of ramblers, horse-riders, cycle riders, and dog walkers all meandering through the leafy tree-lined routes that, here and there, broke off to open areas full of grazing goats.  Many a pleasant hour had been spent afterwards at the café scoffing cake and washing it down with freshly made coffee.
          My husband nodded his agreement, and the car bounced through a gate and along a track, passing through a series of ugly metal barriers until we were in some sort of wasteland.  There was no one around.  No yapping dogs. No rosy-cheeked visitors.  Ahead, a lone car with blacked-out windows was stationary on a patch of concrete, engine idling.
          ‘I’m not sure what sort of a walk this will be,’ said my husband.
          ‘Er, I think we should scrap the walk,’ I murmured, not liking the vibe of the place at all.
          ‘I thought you wanted to do something off-the-cuff?’ said Mr V, pulling up alongside the lone vehicle.  A pair of suspicious eyes stared at us.
          ‘Flipping heck,’ said Eleanor, ‘I’m not getting out here.  I feel like I’ve parachuted into the film set of a horror movie.  Seriously, hit the accelerator.’
          ‘Well today isn’t going anything like how I’d hoped,’ said Mr V, pumping the foot pedal.  ‘Where to now?’
          My stomach let out a huge rumble.  ‘Let’s stop at the first restaurant we come across and grab some lunch.’
          Fifteen minutes later, we were in Detling.
          ‘Yay, a pub!’ I said excitedly. ‘Look, there, slow down, don’t drive past it.’
          ‘Where?’
          ‘To your left.  It’s called The Cock House.  Blimey, that sounds a bit iffy.’
          ‘The only thing that’s iffy, Mother,’ said Eleanor, ‘is your eyesight.  It’s called The Cock HORSE.’
          ‘You know,’ I said to Mr V, as we sat down by a wood burner to eat bangers and mash, ‘we really must go to the seaside more often.’
          Which reminds me.  A magician and his pet parrot worked on Brighton Pier.  Every day, the audience was different, so the magician did the same tricks over and over.  But there was a problem. The parrot, after seeing the same tricks time and time again, sussed them out.  He began squawking the secrets out to the crowd. ‘Look! It’s not the same hat… he’s hiding the doves under the table… hey, why are all the cards the King of Clubs?’ The magician was livid, but he loved the parrot and didn’t want to get rid of him. Then one day the pier sank.  The magician found himself floating on a piece of wood with the parrot.  They glared at each other for a good twenty minutes until, finally, the parrot squawked, ‘Okay, I give up. Where’s the pier?’