Introduction Martin Richman

We grew up a few minutes from the beach in Southsea, which is the seaside resort part of Portsmouth. Amongst other businesses my father had a seasonal sea-front shop that sold film and pharmaceutical requirements for holidaymakers. In the fifties it was still a fairly popular holiday town for people from the Midlands and the North of England. My mother would take us children to the beach regardless of the weather, so swimming in storms was a favourite exhilaration. As we sat on the beach we played with sand and pebbles or gazed out to sea where the Isle of Wight was usually visible across the Solent. How clearly visible the island was became a means of assessing the weather, so veiled in deep mist or cloud wasn't so promising, but neither was crystal clarity. The best omen for good weather was a fine haze softening the focus as though gauze veils had draped themselves across the horizon.

Most English seaside towns partially define themselves with the presence of swags of coloured lamps hanging along the promenade. My memory is of having an early awareness of how lighting helped generate a quality of atmosphere so the promenade with its simple swags of lamps encouraged gentle walks for lovers or families taking in the romance of sea air, whilst at the far end of the sea front was an exuberant and brash fun fair with noise, flashing lights, excessively sweet and savoury smells and edges of danger both from the rattling rides and the older adolescents and drunken sailors who hung around there. I was fascinated; the brothel-creeper clad boys spinning cars on the waltzers, girls squealing with candyfloss flying across gaping mouths, whilst I tried to look cool in ice-blue jeans leaning against the balustrade with Johnny Kidd and the Pirates shaking all over.