Wednesday, 25 June 2014


Or fonts . . .
Interesting how one word in a certain shape can conjure up a hundred images in your mind.
HAVEN:  snapped in Poole, Dorset — those castellated white letters on a postcard-blue background, happily preserved from some time in the late 60s?

I can just see my Nan, tartan blanket tucked under one arm, Daily Mirror and a shopping bag containing a thermos, Penguin biscuites and a packet of fags hanging from the other. She would probably have a floral headscarf pulled tight over her Blue Rinsed hair, or maybe a plastic rain hat if the sky looked ugly.
If the thermos had been forgotten, or the beach too wild with sandy winds we might have gone into the Haven café and had a teacake, slippery with butter (or margarine) and a pot of creosote for two. The air would have been grey with cigarette smoke, and Nan would have lit up too, smiling at me through her own personal cloud: "D'you want to come to Bingo with me and your Aunty Lil in the evening?   


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