The last time I wrote on this blog Australia was widely regarded as a competent cricketing nation.The world has changed since December. The winter uprisings in the Middle East and Africa mean the start of a new political era for the Arab world. The Japanese earthquake has once again shown how nature’s destructive force can be far superior to our own. My personal ability to get lost on the London Underground surprised even myself.
There are some things that never change however. One is the holiday postcard.
Last week I was in London. Having finally emerged at ground level after navigating my way round the finer parts of the London tube network, I set out to buy a book. The one I had brought with me had lasted less time than the United Nation’s ‘no-action’ stance over Libya; I needed a good read.
I found myself in Pimlico, an area of London probably most famous for a tedious black and white film from the ‘50s about an unexploded German bomb – gripping I know. It appears the film writers got it wrong however, because from my viewpoint on Pimlico high street, that bomb exploded.
Anyway, I found the Oxfam books store I was yearning for, and bought the slimmest thing that wasn’t a dieting guide in the shop: Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. I found a postcard inside the pages from October 2002. Oh good lord, it fulfilled every stereotype of a typical English holiday.
As you can see from the picture, the postcard is from the beautiful holiday resort of Arnside, Cumbria. Can you see those children playing on the beach? Oh no, that’s not sand. As the writer of this treasured postcard explains: “the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud.”
In all, this postcard is a sad indictment on the British tourist industry. Just how depressing does this picture look! There’s a man in jeans on the beach. Four people in the sea look downright shivery. It’s hardly a Hawaiian goddess draped over a sun lounger, or a wonderful white beach stretching into the distance without a hint of civilisation. No, the image of Britain: a cold mud splat foregrounding an industrial-sized car park and a Weatherspoons.
And, just if you think the picture is boring enough to rot your mind, let’s take a look at what ‘Mum (et al)’ wrote to describe this amazing holiday adventure:‘Had a stroll here today, and Granny and I spent rather a lot of money between us at a v. nice little cake-shop! Decided to save the bathing for another visit (the ‘beach’ of the estuary is actually all mud).
Lots of love
Mum (et al)’
Well wasn’t that a thrilling read. Quite predictably you spent money on holiday; and wouldn’t you know it, Grandma takes advantage of finally being let out of the Home to eat as much sugary baking products as possible. There’s also the assurance that you’ll be visiting again to get back on that lovely mud beach.
I can see why the recipient of this marvellous contribution to literature stored it in a high-security Conrad novel. I’m half way through the bloody book and I can’t see why anyone would really read it out of choice. If it wasn’t for me, this postcard would have remained pristine for centuries, condemning Britain’s 21st Century holiday culture forevermore.
