Banqueting suite) where a legitimate reason for a taxi rank brawl is who took the last of the chilli sauce in Munchies, Mr Munchies or Mrs Munchies, and where (and this is fact) a 16 year old girl got married in her school lunch break to an illegal immigrant and her tutor (guardian of her virtue) signed the paperwork as her witness then paid for a reception in chameleons cafe.
That is Exmouth town centre clinging onto the tatters of my self respect. For three years I inhabited that hole so loved by tourists for its beautiful sandy beach peppered with syringes and condoms disgarded in the throws of passion during post-sams (nightclub) “dunes” action with marines commandos.
the overwhelming stench of Charlie Red and Tommy Hilfiger as Ben Sherman clad ******* would thrust a fiver at me and ask for an Iron Brew “Wicked”.
endless KFC suppers and visits to the RD and E (Exeter Hospital) nursing many a broken cheekbone, nose, eyebrow.
I once shared the dream that many Exmothians harbour that one day
I too might be one of those mums in Peacocks scratching for coppers to buy my seven kids school uniforms as my husband slurps 6X in the Heavitree. My ex even got down on one knee in Sams and arranged for the fairground compere DJ to pop the question to which at one stage in my life and despite absence of ring and a promise of a trip to Elizabeth Duke (@ ARGOS!) I was actually flattered!
it. I remember thinking as the sun hit the singular platform at Exmouth Train Station that if I look back I might even miss this place so daringly I took a glance in the general town direction and instead of a farewell banner, a couple canoodling beside the arcades, a happy
pensioner being helped through the subway by a group of young males, instead I saw a Subaru Impreza being marvelled at through the KFC window not by individual ***** but **** families holding it up as something to aspire to while tucking into an Exmouth sunday lunch (Bargain Bucket). I got the **** out of there and never looked back.