Sunday 11th September

I really quite love Frinton-on-Sea.  We visited once when I was a child, my twelfth-birthday as I seem to remember, and we set off for a day trip by train from Liverpool Street.  I was expecting to spend the day on the beach, and was at that awkward age when the last thing you want is to be seen in a bathing costume, and the idea of buckets and spades and deckchairs appalled me, so I really wasn’t looking forward to it all, but, of course, this was Grandma’s idea so I said nothing.  As it transpired we hardly spent any time by the sea, the tide was in if I remember and there wasn’t much of a beach.  But I fell in love with the High Street, and have carried on visiting every couple of years or so.  As I do not drive I usually obtain a lift, by slyly suggesting it as a perfect destination, whenever my friends are talking about a day-trip to the coast.  The town is so quaint, and old-fashioned, it is almost set in a time-capsule.  There is still a real butchers and a fishmongers, and a couple of bakers on the high street, and best of all there are no chain stores, except a Boots.  It still has quite a few independent little shops selling elegant clothes or quirky home-ware.  There are some quite creditable restaurants too, and only one public house, quite smart too, so one doesn’t get those awful spilling-onto-the–streets louts one finds at so many seaside resorts.

My favourite shop is the Art-Deco emporium; it is simply crammed with genuine nineteen thirties pottery, light fittings, paintings, and even telephones.  I particularly love the Moorcroft jugs and vases and usually end up purchasing one, even though I am rapidly running out of space for anything new.

I suppose my love of Frinton is a sign of my hankering for a more genteel era, when shop assistants had time for you, when people were still polite to each other and when there was no rush and bustle. They say that as you grow older you become your parents; well I fear I am in danger of becoming Grandma.