A Day Trip to the Seaside with my Beachball and Swimming Trunks

Everyone gets up at 4.30,
I wonder why when we don’t go ‘til 7.
Everything’s packed, the car’s overloaded.
I squeeze in with my ugly pubescent sister,
with all her summer dresses.
Mums crisps and salad cobs,
Dads four hundred Embassys,
and me and my beach ball and swimming trunks.

We’re off, on our way, nothing’s forgotten.
“How far is it now Dad?”
“Shut up I’m driving,
just sit there and hold your beach ball and swimming trunks”.

We stop off in a lay-by, the cobs are like rubber.
The tea out of the flask tastes plastic.
I watch as my Dad boldly throws the dregs in the hedge,
I try it myself and see most of it end up on my sisters’ legs.
My Mum hits me and says,
“Just behave yourself, and hold your beach ball and swimming trunks”.

We’re there, rush out and run on the sand,
make sand castles and skim stones,
while my Dad looks for dirty books and postcards.
I collect the shells and pebbles,
as my sister flaunts her flat chest, through her nylon vest.
Now I’m playing with my beach ball and wearing my swimming trunks.

I’d ask my Dad to play football, but he’s probably sleeping.
I’d ask him why I’ve got some swimming trunks when I can’t swim,
but he’s probably peeping at the women, changing behind, big, stripy, towels.