I know every family has its creepy story. But mine does seem to possess a surfeit of them.
Our childhood holidays were often taken in a seaside town in Devon. The laborious four-hundred mile car journey southwards tests the patience of anyone. Then throw four squabbling children into the mix, and you have a melting-pot of certain insanity. However, our mother had a trick up her sleeve. Uncle Joe’s Mint Balls would always be at hand – the unfortunately appellated hard-boiled sweets made in our hometown. Traditionally taken down with us as a gift for our nostalgic aunty.
There are two main memories I have from those holidays.
In the first, I am swimming in the sea on my own. I remember having plunged into the waves, the water metamorphosing my clumsy, lumbering landlubber into something resembling grace. Or so I liked to imagine, anyway. I recall peeping my head through the surface…
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