I'm on the beach, in Devon. Boy #1 is at home languishing with a broken leg (yes, really. His entire summer holidays have been spent with it in a cast), using the enforced leisure time to look through YouTube at videos of scary looking blokes with lots of chains, hats, and a plethora of scantily-clad ladies hanging off their every word as they rap and chant about stuff that doesn't bear much relation to his own life experience as a nicely brought up UK schoolboy. (Yes. Yes, I am turning into my parents).
Boy #2 is off investigating rock pools, successfully hunting anemones to prod, and unsuccessfully hunting for crustaceans to study. He has, for once, been persuaded to wear shorts in the UK. This may have more than a little to do with the fact that I have put ALL the trousers that are available to him in the wash, wicked and fiendish woman that I am.
And our new(ish) dog, let's call him Cormoran - not his real name but I've got a bit of a thing for JKR's detective novels - is cavorting around with all sorts of canine buddies. One of them, the owner of an almost identical looking dog (same breed, same age, different sex) strikes up a conversation. She's never visited the area before and is keen to pick my brains about the best way to get into town.
Me: 'You can walk, if you like. Just go to the top of the beach, turn right onto the coastal road, and it will take 15-20 minutes.'
Visiting Lady: 'OK. That sounds great...'
(She doesn't seem particularly delighted)
Me: 'Or, if you prefer, you can turn left at the top of the beach and walk over the hill to the next cove and take the ferry, which will drop right in the middle of town. That's probably the best option, actually."
She perks up. 'That sounds great!'
Me: 'It is. You get a 10 minute trip on the boat, versus a 20 minute walk, and you get to see the town from the water, which is lovely.'
Visiting Lady: 'Perfect! We will definitely do that. Well, goodbye - and thanks, Judith Chalmers!'
Dear god. And I wasn't even flashing any crepey chest. I am NEVER giving out directions again.
Boy #2 is off investigating rock pools, successfully hunting anemones to prod, and unsuccessfully hunting for crustaceans to study. He has, for once, been persuaded to wear shorts in the UK. This may have more than a little to do with the fact that I have put ALL the trousers that are available to him in the wash, wicked and fiendish woman that I am.
And our new(ish) dog, let's call him Cormoran - not his real name but I've got a bit of a thing for JKR's detective novels - is cavorting around with all sorts of canine buddies. One of them, the owner of an almost identical looking dog (same breed, same age, different sex) strikes up a conversation. She's never visited the area before and is keen to pick my brains about the best way to get into town.
Me: 'You can walk, if you like. Just go to the top of the beach, turn right onto the coastal road, and it will take 15-20 minutes.'
Visiting Lady: 'OK. That sounds great...'
(She doesn't seem particularly delighted)
Me: 'Or, if you prefer, you can turn left at the top of the beach and walk over the hill to the next cove and take the ferry, which will drop right in the middle of town. That's probably the best option, actually."
She perks up. 'That sounds great!'
Me: 'It is. You get a 10 minute trip on the boat, versus a 20 minute walk, and you get to see the town from the water, which is lovely.'
Visiting Lady: 'Perfect! We will definitely do that. Well, goodbye - and thanks, Judith Chalmers!'
Dear god. And I wasn't even flashing any crepey chest. I am NEVER giving out directions again.
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