On a Sunday, in the summer,
My parents and I, with bucket and spade,
Would go to the station at South Tottenham
To get on the train for a day at the sea.
It would take an hour; chuffety chuff.
When we got to Westcliff we’d get off
And walk down the hill onto the prom.
That’s where they’d get their deck chairs from
To look out at the sea, the estuary,
While as for me, I put on my trunks;
Then with bucket and spade in my hand
I’d run down and play on the sand.
Then I’d go into the water;
Hear a shout, “Don’t go too far out.”
I took no notice; I couldn’t swim,
So I’d stand with the Channel up to my chin,
The water lapping all around;
Oblivious to sight and oblivious to sound.
Then I’d get out and get myself dried.
“My bucket is lost,” I invariably cried.
But my dad would have rescued it from the sand
So I’d stop my blubbing and hold it tight
Determined to take it home that night.
We’d then go off for fish and chips
At one of the restaurants under the arches,
Then go for a walk down to Southend
Where my parents would talk to people they knew
Who they met on the way, down for the day,
As a substitute for going away.
They’d buy me an ice cream in a cone
And then some tea before we went home.
At six o’clock we’d be back on the train;
In an hour and a half I’d be in bed
Feeling exhausted and pretty well fed.