April 17th, 1989

April 17th, 1989

Newquay, Cornwall

Checked out of the nursing home this morning (aka the Sunleigh hotel) and now in Newquay at a hotel called The Roundabout, overlooking the beach. This place is so much more our style and the guests are definitely much closer to our age bracket!

Can’t say I was sorry to leave the OAP’s behind, they were sweet but it seemed that most of their morning was spent reading an average of three newspapers each, followed by several heated discussions and disagreements on all they had read.

“Do you want to drive for a bit?” Ben asked as we put the last of our bags in the boot.

“How long will it take to get to Newquay?”

“About two hours.”

“No thanks.”

He laughed, “Not even for a little bit?”

“Nope. As long as you don’t mind?” I asked.

“Of course I don’t mind babe.”

On our way, we listened to Radio One and sang pretty much every song Simon Bates played. At eleven, when the “Our Tune” segment came on, Ben groaned when I asked him not to change the station. Unfortunately for me, it didn’t take long for him to get his revenge.

The second the opening chords of this week’s number one began to play, Ben reached for the volume dial, smiling broadly at me.

“Ugh,” I shouted, then stuck my tongue out at him.

Holding out his hand to me, he sang, “Close your eyes, give me your hand darling, do you feel my heart beating.”

I batted his hand away, feigned a shudder and shook my head in mock disapproval. “She reminds me of Belinda Carlisle with that shaky voice of hers.”

“She does not have a shaky voice.”

“She does. Listen,” I said, though I didn’t give him a chance to. “What’s her name again?” I asked.

“Eh I don’t remember,” he said, grinning.

“You’re so lying.”

“Yes, yes I am,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. “Her name is Susanna Hoffs.”

“It must be a California girl thing.”

“What?” he asked. “Their sex appeal?”

“No,” I said, hitting his arm, “The whole quivering voice thing.”

“Is that jealousy I detect?”

“Not even.”

“Not even a teeny weeny bit?” he asked, walking his fingers up my leg.

“Maybe a tad,” I laughed, then in the most tremulous voice I could muster, I sang, “Am I only dreaming, or is this burning an eternal flame?”

“Is it?” he asked, reaching his hand out to me. “Is it?”

“Yes,” I said, taking his hand.

“Are you positive?”

“One hundred percent.”


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