The Idler

Isle of Wight

The childish protestations had failed; my parents were packing me off on holiday with a semi-estranged branch of the family. I suspected that I’d been given as a sacrifice or peace offering as I hesitantly boarded the Isle of Wight ferry with my Nan, her husband, my Aunt and cousin.

On arrival we took to the road, driving past endless fields of cows while my cousin and I were regaled with facts from a guidebook. It was a rare and as it turned out, groundless moment of enthusiasm from the adults. “The tiny island can be circumnavigated by car in hours” my Aunt enthused. At the time this seemed revelatory - especially so, as our drive inland had already taken hours. We were lost. It had become dark when someone spotted a collection of decrepit pre-fab huts in the distance. “Imagine if that’s where we’re staying” my cousin joked.

On the positive side, our clapboard village boasted a social complex. Here, under-16’s hung-out in a games room which comprised a dozen ten-penny fruit machines. This could have been a refuge, but the intense popularity of the fruit machines hindered interaction - unless you count hostile stares. It served as a rigorous initiation in rudimentary gambling where, if you weren’t careful, you’d have your lunch-money taken by a rat-tailed kid on a losing streak.

Back at the hut, family bickering would usually subside at 9pm. This was Golden-Girls time. The show was on TV every evening and my Nan and Aunt adored it. If they weren’t watching The Golden Girls, they were talking about it. This regularly drove Grandad out onto the porch seeking solace in
Golden Virginia and still provides me with a residual resentment of Bea Arthur.

Meanwhile, I was becoming consumed by the feeling of grim desolation that permeated every waking moment of the trip. The essence of a seaside town on a Sunday, combined with the feeling aroused at the very moment that you hear your much loved pet has died, still comes nowhere near it.
Because of this unremitting grimness, distraction of any kind was welcome. I was almost looking forward to visiting to the islands theme park. Sadly, Black Gang Chine was less of a theme park than a disparate collection of macabre, aged, fairytale-style fabrications. And even these were gradually
falling into the sea as the tides steadily ravaged the parks cliff-top location. Over-sized toadstools, a giant mouth and crazee wonkee house were among highlights likely conceived when fibreglass offered limitless wacky potential. As a fun day out, it fell short of Epcot.

On another afternoon, my cousin and I persuaded my Aunt to drop us off at a local indoor swimming pool. For some reason, the lifeguard (unaware of our presence) knocked-off early and inadvertently locked us inside the building. We were baffled when we emerged from the changing rooms to find a deserted
pool within a pitch-black room. Hours later my Aunt returned to collect us. Having mysteriously dispensed with traditional maternal emotions, she began screaming at us maniacally through the window and threatened to leave us there for the night. Thankfully, she eventually relented and tracked down a
key-holding member of staff. By the time we were released, we’d been locked inside for over six hours.

That night we were sent to bed early as punishment (?), while the adults enjoyed another sidesplitting episode of the Golden Girls. But all was forgotten the following morning and for a treat on our last day we were taken to see a film. It was 1981; the year of ET and Poltergeist, but we went to see “Bobbies on the Beat” a film starring Cannon and Ball.

Rock-on.

Christianne Flowers