Weston Pier

by Mel George

When I was twenty and you were nineteen, we went to Weston-Super-Mare, because we loved rubbish things. We sat on the pier, bickering and content, away from everything else, and watched some old people riding the gaudy little train down to the amusements. They were determinedly clutching newspapers in the wind, macs done up and sunglasses on, one occasionally bellowing something into the other’s hearing aid. We grinned, and one of us said, "that’ll be us one day." With the rest of the world factored out, just us and the rabid seagulls, it seemed possible. But things happen, and Weston Pier burnt down.


Mel George is a born and bred Bristolian, exiled to Oxford. She co-edits The Pygmy Giant, an online home for new British writing.