SLIDES 0222-0230
July, 1965, and my Grandparents return to the SS Canberra which loads up with suitcases (I do like that pic) and departs Southampton on another trip to the Med, conveniently (for them) skipping the first anniversary of my arrival on this planet, because families were much more sensible about such things in those days.
After all, what the hell would I remember about it anyway? Most of the time I can barely remember a single day of whatever happened to me before I was about twelve.
But, despite temptations to the contrary, this really isn't about me.
Before they've left the chilly waters surrounding our shores, the swimming pool aboard ship is surrounded by souls far more hardy and prepared to show off their flesh than I'll ever be. But then, the main recollection I have of any post-holiday conversation back in the 1970s was "Ooh, aren't you brown...!" which was, of course, the only criteria to be applied as to how good - or otherwise - a holiday had been.
The more sensible people seem to have headed straight to the bars and restaurants for more fundamental sustenance.
They certainly like their straw hat didn't they?
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