That was the day it happened, I had been job hunting and met up with and old friend. We ended up going for a few drinks; he was driving an old and dented Mazda pick-up. It stunk of fish, so did he for that matter. Not surprisingly, really, as we had met quite close to the dock area where he worked as a fish filleter. Probably one of the most sort after occupations in the area, at the time. He was good at what he did and was paid reasonably well. We had jumped in the blue works pick-up to re-visit a place we had frequented during our younger days.

On the approach to the pub we had to drive through, something of a holiday complex, a very narrow lane, one way, with numerous speed bumps, bloody nuisance. Each time we slowed and hit the concrete hump something else dislodged in the back of the truck and started to roll aimlessly with a clatter and bump
The lane was lined with cabin type holiday cottages, some in need of repair, others with elaborate statues and urns set-out as if designating some sort of sentry.
The North Sea was within a stones throw, the bracing sea air was now taking away the working days smell from the truck, with the lack of a handle, I don’t think the window could have been closed.

We arrived at the pub; it was nearing the end of the holiday season so the amount of custom was a bit sparse. In true holiday tradition there was still live entertainment provided; Mable sat at the old, white, upright piano.
Looking back, I think the vision of Mable sat at that piano, with her cigarette burning away in the tin ashtray, at the side of her schooner of sherry, would have been entertainment enough, in today’s hi tech world.
A lot of glass, a floral red carpet, the stale smell of piss, vomit, and real ale, a traditional British pub. The pub had been there long before Billy Butlin had taken a stronghold on the area; it was a two minute walk from the beach. The miners from neighbouring areas came in their droves to holiday in their caravans and chalets, year in, year out. There were even designated weeks, named after the towns that the miners came from, they created a much needed influx of holiday spirit.

So, all part of growing up, nothing feels the same when you go back.
Now, don’t get me wrong, the furniture, the sickly wall covering, even the sticky beer towels were just as we had left them. Old Peggy, the barmaid, with her nicotine stained fingers and laddered stockings, always cheerful and ready for a bit of banter.
If you’ve got time to lean you’ve got time to clean, Peggy’s favourite motto, as she called it.

We had changed.
Slightly older, a bit wiser, perhaps above all, our expectations had changed.
Circumstances in life start to control how we react to everyday occurrences. We never dreamed of being firemen or doctors, we just knew we wanted to be different from our parents, cousins and uncles. We wanted to drive a nice car and own a big house; at the time I don’t think we had ever envisaged how we would achieve these goals.
The reminiscing over, it was time to leave.




A storm had been brewing and the wind was now whipping around the car park as we headed towards the pick-up.
The rain started to drum on the roof of the vehicle, a flash of lightning forked across the empty North Sea sky. A clap of thunder and the rain increased its rhythmic attack; the windscreen wipers couldn’t cope with heavy downpour.
At least twenty acres of open land reaching to the beach sprawled in front of us, the thunder and lightning now competing with the drumming of the rain. Suddenly a massive flash of blue, grey light sparked in front of the truck. Black emptiness followed, then again a blazing flash, the Mazda juddered from the jolt, a crackle and a spit. The truck had been struck by lightning.

We both glared at each other, then as suddenly as the storm had begun it disappeared, the rain stopped, the thunder had ceased.
As I sat trying to re-focus, after the glaring light-flashes, I felt a warmness, almost a glow. Soaked to the skin, in a state of shock I ran my shaking fingers through my wet hair, there was a hot, burning sensation at the crown of my head.
The steam permeating from the top of my head was not a trick of the light.
The chance, in I don’t now how many million, that was the day it happened.
Things were never to be the same.

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