‘The seaside?
I hate it – it stinks.
Seaweed gunge,
diesel fumes,
vinegar and chips.
Little dogs yapping
and toddlers shrieking
and everyone splashing.
Picturesque?
Rusty boats with stupid names and chipped paint,
and old men hosing down the decks.
Soggy stuff sinking, bottles bobbing,
oily feathers, yucky lumps, floating shit,
bones with fur, skulls with beaks!
Flotsam jetsom and dunnage?
Are they ancient words
for trawler men’s gloves
thrown up by the tide
and lobster pots
and nets and plastic and string?
Shells for my mum?
Sea-smoothed glass?
No I hate collecting,
getting sand in my hair
and marks on my shoes.
No I don’t want to paddle –
oh please auntie please,
let’s not go to the beach!
I’m thirteen now, I hate the seaside,
I’m not a kid!
What do I want to do?
Oh let’s get in your car
and drive fast down my street
with the hood down
and my music loud
and wave at my friends!’
That’s what the girl said.