Modern capitalism has failed my son

A light was on in the caravan site office so I went over to try and buy a gas canister. Come Easter the little Cornish seaside resort will be heaving. Now a stiff north wind blew in off the sea and it felt like the dregs of winter still. The site office was shut but a woman came out and said she was expecting a delivery tomorrow but she didn’t know yet how much a canister would cost. Nor did she know of anywhere open where we could get something to eat. She thought there might be a place down by the beach. Nobody had managed to get any seasonal staff yet and everything was a bit uncertain, she said.

So me, my son and my two grandsons went down to the parade of seaside shops with our chins in our collars. There were no lights on or any people about. But I was very happy that after a year I could be with my son and grandsons in reality instead of via a video call, and I couldn’t have cared less. We stepped on to the darkened beach and listened to the sea, then retreated to the caravan for beans on toast and snooker on the little telly.

‘How much do you owe?’ I asked my son. He named an astounding figure

It was Ronnie O’Sullivan vs Neil ‘The Thunder from Down Under’ Robertson in the semi-final. My son and grandsons are O’Sullivan fans. Ronnie is a snooker player of genius but a mercurial individual. One of his nicknames is The Two Ronnies. Another is The Rocket. Tonight he was The Rocket. We four sat in a row on a semi-circular cushioned bench. The potting was sublime. Even the safety play was thrilling. The boys, aged ten and 12, watched attentively and commented intelligently.