Every year for the last twenty, Wilf and Anna took the train to the coast and stayed a week at Mrs. Appleby’s guest house.
They’d walk along the pier, buy ice-cream from the Italian parlour and candyfloss from a young woman whose face changed but whose piercings and tattoos always seemed the same, and celebrate their anniversary with a glass of bubbly in the Indian restaurant on the prom.
And every year for the last twenty both thought how much nicer it would be in Spain – or Bali.
But neither ever said.
So the next year they took the train…