Days at the seaside, Pac a Macs and ice cream, went sand between your toes, and the smell of chip fat on the breeze. That's my mother on the left, my Auntie Annie on the right, and, more than likely, me in the middle. I have no memory of a coat and cap as smart as that: no memory of the year: but I can still recall the small of salt-laced rain on a plastic macs.
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