The British Bank Holiday. Heatwave last week, so factor in cloud and preferably mizzle for a Bank Holiday Monday. It's not what we want but it is generally what we get. It is however, the sort of weather that sorts out the men from the boys. The women from the girls, or the Arthurs who may be Marthas. ( Trying valiantly to cover every base here.)
Monday was no different from many previous Bank holidays. I put on my swimming costume ( my wet suit winging its way back to the mother ship, Amazon) my thick hoodie, jogging trousers (for show, you understand)and my scarf, before joining my similarly clad family. The wind whipping up the waves, and a threatening sky did not deter our resolve to spend some family time on the beach. It gave us a brief respite from technology. The sand between our toes reconnected us with the elements and temporarily disconnected us from a complex world of political uncertainty and electoral posturing.
All this and a cream tea? Clouds lifted and the sun shone through. For one day only, I was on the see-food diet. Not a word, right?
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