The Carlton Cafe is to close. He read about it in the local paper. It is sad. He’s known the owner for a long time, from when she used to be a waitress in a restaurant he and his mother were fond of. She and her partner worked so hard to make the cafe nice. The food wasn’t wonderful but is was filling, and of the kind of fare that the sort of holidaymakers that come here wanted. The portions were generous, with plates piled high with chips, beans or roast potatoes. Milk shakes came in the tall, fluted glasses that I remember knickerbocker glories being served in as a child. Builder’s tea was delivered in little metal pots, and coffees were weak but milky. And there were the banquettes. You could look down on the high street below from them. And there were always help-yourself tins of hair and body spray and tubes of hand cream in the ladies loo. She cared, as did he. The lockdown, Brexit and the cost of living have all taken their toll. I shall miss it. And them.
