vange fobbing

Dave’s friend Mark came over and we went on a journey into the further reaches of Essex. It was a suitable day for Canvey Island and Jaywick. Never stopped raining. Canvey Island is twinned with… says a sign as you enter, followed by a list of European place-names, like a series of relationships that never worked out. We didn’t get out of the car, except to garner provisions or to smoke. It was like one of those classic British seaside holidays. Trapped in the car with a Thermos of tea and a tartan rug. Or in our case, ginger beer and a roll of kitchen towel. Looking out at the ‘seafront industrial estate’, as the signs seemed to put it.

It was probably the best way to experience the place. The best thing you can say about it is that, Sainsbury’s and Morrison’s aside, it has managed to fight off the big corporations who are destroying local shops, though to be fair, it probably wasn’t a pitched battle exactly. A grim-looking off-white building which might have been a garage was actually labelled: Centre For Young People. It didn’t look much fun, but probably it was more about indoctrination, if not actual brain surgery. The ability to live there would have to be acquired somehow.

We did get out of the car at Jaywick, a community of beach huts with an outlaw feel. It wasn’t at its best in the pouring rain either, but at least it wasn’t one of those depressingly uniform housing estates. People had used their small, but detached, homesteads as vehicles for free expression. They’d shoved a park bench and some pot plants on the roof. They’d filled rubber tyres with soil and planted pansies in them. Or they’d burned their places down to leave charred ruins; quite a popular choice, this. Imagine the family dancing round the flames. We returned to the car: it was still there.