Southend, miniature castles, ice cream and fish and chips.

Southend, miniature castles, ice cream and fish and chips.

Ah Southend, isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Now we've all heard those song lyrics but perhaps it wouldn't have been quite what Stevie Wonder had in mind just over 41 years. Maybe he did make a fleeting visit to the Essex Riviera but none of us were ever informed and besides it would have been a very private event well away from the dazzling glare of publicity, cameras, inquisitive by passers and those who were just fascinated by the unexpected presence of the Motown legend at the Kursaal or Rossi's famous restaurant in nearby Westcliff.

So here we are in the middle of August and Southend has that end of pier, weatherbeaten and slightly tired look about it. The children are now at home at the beginning of the summer holidays and although Southend looked reasonably busy and thriving there was a sense that summer is now declining and dwindling away into the welcoming arms of autumn.

There is now a sad and regretful air about Southend. There were plenty of families and children in evidence but somehow the numbers weren't quite as impressive as they might have been in May, June and July. The beaches looked empty and forlorn, drained and, to all outward appearances, in desperate need of a holiday or maybe a good old fashioned deckchair. I know. We'll give Southend a break, a change of scenery perhaps or maybe a soothing drop of alcohol by way of complete relaxation.

We are now in the middle of August and even seaside resorts need a break from the toil, sweat and drudgery of  workaday life. There they are isolated, side-lined, overlooked, taken for granted during the winter and autumn. Then  they expect the whole of humanity to just open for business during the summer without ever considering how they might be feeling.

Our day didn't start promisingly because things just went from bad to worse to almost forgettable. But we could still laugh uncontrollably because even the best laid plans can go to rack and ruin. Our coach was supposed to arrive punctually in Stamford Hill at 10.15 with no complications and problems. And yet there were frustrations, there were difficulties and you know what's it like. You wake up in the morning, full of expectation and childish excitement perhaps but then find that sometimes even the most minor of inconveniences can just spiral out of control.

We were due to leave at roughly 10.00 in the morning but then discovered that fate had something else up its sleeves. The coach had been delayed on the way down to us and we felt like stranded passengers whose train was still stuck at Crewe. We began to bite our finger nails, cursed disgustedly under our breath, suppressed a couple of Anglo Saxon obscenities but then acknowledged that there was no point in getting all hot, bothered and agitated over something we couldn't possibly solve or resolve.

So we waited patiently and we waited even more patiently because we're a hardy, formidable group and we never complain without cause. We're renowned for our tolerance and forbearance, we'll grit our teeth, grin at adversity and then poke fun at the coach driver because it had to be his fault. But we will not be defeated or beaten. We will not accept the inevitability that destiny occasionally throws up and we'll battle on, soldier forwards and just stand our ground.

Thankfully after what seemed an eternity of deliberation, a replacement coach had been found for a coach that had just stubbornly refused to go any further than it should have done. We climbed onto our new, pristine coach with all of the fixtures and fittings of an air conditioner that actually blew out cool air and seats that were warm, comfortable and accommodating.

Then, for reasons best known to him, the coach driver, presumably jokingly, turned up the radio to full deafening blast. My friend and I launched our first bombardment of light hearted banter, wit, sarcasm and then snivelling rage at the realisation that he was just being deliberately awkward and spiteful. Then heading towards Stoke Newington our worst fears were confirmed. Our driver had taken note of our increasing exasperation deciding instantly that two can play at that game.

Suddenly the new coach ground to a shuddering halt. The coach had now pulled sternly into a petrol station and then stopped once again. Initially we assumed that our driver was just seeking some glorious revenge for the facetious jibes we'd aimed at him for being a pain in the neck and late. So it was that our replacement coach finally moved out of the petrol station and into a journey that seemed to be fuelled with just a hint of grudge, anger and vengeance.

Eventually our coach arrived in Southend at roughly lunchtime. According to our watches a journey that should have taken perhaps an hour at the very least, had now taken the best part of half the day. So we sniggered, cackled, took a deep breath and then resigned ourselves to  whatever the day might have held. We knew exactly what had happened to us but couldn't rationalise it in our minds because, frustratingly, this shouldn't have been happening to us.

Our bodies had told us repeatedly that our jolly trip to the Essex coast should have started, progressed and concluded at the right time and the right place. None of us for a minute had legislated for a minute for a coach driver we felt had adopted the wrong kind of attitude nor a rattling, decrepit old coach that seemed to break down at the wrong time and the wrong place. But then none of us harboured any kind of resentment because that wouldn't have achieved anything. It was all about time though.

We were still on the road to Southend at mid-day rather than basking in the blossoming rays of August sunshine that Southend had provided for us. The thought occurred to us that we should have been on the beach, tying knotted handkerchiefs on our heads and then staring at acres of seaweed that Southend had so kindly prepared us for.

Sadly though this was not to be the case. Instead we were still racing down towards the coastline and even the gulls had polished off twenty loaves of bread for lunch. Starvation here was not the issue. There was a kind of measured outrage on the coach which, without ever reaching the law courts, would never have been tolerated by any passengers on a day out to the seaside. We kept our feelings to ourselves, gave the coach driver the benefit of the doubt and then just threw in the white towels of surrender, capitulating meekly and then got on with the day in front of us.

Some of us retreated to the traditional seaside lunchtime sustenance of that wonderful culinary treat of fish and chips. This is, as we all know, quintessentially British, richly British, soulfully British, uniquely British, adorably British, the supper of kings and queens, of soldiers and sailors, long distance lorry drivers, holiday makers, day trippers and that stalwart dish of millions of families up and down Britain. It is hard to know whether Britain invented fish and chips because we have got some of the prettiest fishing harbours and ports in the world so maybe that can be our claim.

For so many decades and generations fish and chips has exerted its special influence on the hungry palates of men, women, boys and girls, aunties, cousins, nieces, brothers and sisters. So we tucked into our hearty portions of cod and chips and indeed thought of England because this is the country we were born in and this was the staple food that made us feel good about ourselves at all times.

And then we finally, happily, devoured our fish and chips because it had fully restored our faith in nature because this was the meal that had fed so many generations when the sun shone and it just felt right. Appetites satisfied, some of us treated ourselves to a 99 ice cream with a flake because that was rather like the signature treat at the end of the day, the kind of  treat that underlined our day, illustrated our day perfectly and summarised it to perfection.

Today had a fantastic simplicity and straightforwardness to it. Once we'd reached our destination the day unfolded like a British umbrella. But here we are again at what felt like the concluding chapter of summer, August maturing like a good wine, quietly expectant in the sweetest of vineyards. All of those bed and breakfast hotels, pubs, cafes and fish and chip restaurants had been deeply polite and respectful. But there was something missing and it was difficult to know what. It must have been a figment of my imagination but even the gulls weren't quite as noisy and enthusiastic as they might have been in June.

Even Southend's exotic row of palm trees, that always look as though they belong in Monaco, looked flat and lifeless. Of course the sea breezes did briefly ruffle their composed branches but Southend looked just a tad exhausted. weary and lethargic as perhaps it hadn't been for quite a while. We could still hear the gee whizz, raucous screams of the children on the fairground rides, the swinging, swaying, up and down motions of a thousand roller coasters, the ecstatic cries of gulls swooping down on unsuspecting folk with their fish and chips. Oh and before I forget there were the miniature fairy tale castles next to a pub. Of course they were enchanting but we can only assume that Hans Christian Andersen had popped in for a swift half in Southend many, many moons ago.

 Oh for the changing moods of the day, then the arrival of  normality, the constancy and continuity of summer's pulsing heartbeat. If only summer could give us a guarantee that it might last for ever. But then we'd probably long for the vintage and cosy flavours of autumn and winter, central heating, roaring log fires and hot chicken soups, of privacy and intimacy and being indoors because winter may not be that far away.

At tea time our coach headed back home and for the satisfied reflections of a late summer's day when the early evening sun begins to drop over the rooftops rather reluctantly and much sooner than might have been the case a couple of weeks earlier. Soon autumn will shed its first leaves and memories of fish and chips, seaside resorts, ice-creams, Mo Farah, Usain Bolt and English cricket on those succulent blades of green grass will be just a distant image, like a blackbird that temporarily settles on British turf as if passing through for a while. Southend. I salute you. You remain one of our finest of all seaside resorts. May that always be the case.