Tony Quarrington

Life was never better

Than in Nineteen Sixty Three

Between the end of the snowbound winter

And Freddie’s You Were Made For Me.

On a cool August morning in Foord Road

A blue Vauxhall Victor groans to a stop,

Disgorging two pairs of flustered parents 

And three kids chock full of crisps and pop.

No sooner the guest book’s been signed

The kids clamour to go to East Cliff Sands;

With the tide far out the beach is ripe 

For making castles and handstands.

But it’s for cricket the boy yearns the most,

Pitching stumps and bails he scans the beach

For willing, smaller boys to do the fielding 

While he smashed the ball out of their reach.

As sand recedes beneath insistent waves,

Cricket gives way to crazy golf with slides,

To amusement arcade and boating lake,  

Rollercoasters and Rotunda rides. 

He plays for plastic racing cars

And pinball machine high scores,

While parents play bingo for household goods 

They could buy much cheaper in the stores. 

And then there’s that first trip abroad 

On a ferry bound for Boulogne-Sur-Mer,

The boy spends his time bent overboard,

In bitter tears and silent prayer.

But he brightens at promise of fish and chips, 

White bread and butter, mugs of tea;

And climbing the crooked, sloping street

To Rock Shop’s window wide and free.

Life was never better

Than in Nineteen Sixty Three

Between the end of the snowbound winter

And Freddie’s You Were Made For Me.