Ma and I pretending to own a beach hut. ‘I’ve been in charge of this place for ten years now,’ says the manager of the shopping centre, staring glumly at a hand rail, ‘and I’ve never seen an accident like this before.’ Yes, it’s our first stop on a short break away from home with Ma and she’s already sliced her arm open. Her poor back means she has to hold on tight when climbing stairs and, as she grabs the bannister to haul herself up, she cries out in surprise. An insanely-designed metal joint juts out from under the rail at just the right height to slice the skin off Ma’s arm (or, possibly, to thwack a child’s cheek bone) and we have to seek the services of a first aider to clean and dress the wound. It’s not the best start to Ma’s holiday, but, hey, in week that’s seen three of our nearest and dearest hospitalized for various reasons, we’re simply relieved to have come this far. For our whirlwind tour of East Anglia, we’ve booked to stay at Premier Inns; inexpensive, effici...
Christine Stovell, author and freelance writer, on living and writing in West Wales