Saturday morning and the sun is shining again. We have no plans for the next hour or so and we’ve all just sat round the table and eaten porridge, stained pink with overripe sliced plums. There’s no rush and it feels so good. We’re all exhausted by the past five days of waking again at six and getting Eve and Leah, who insist on dressing themselves now but at the rate of one item of clothing per twenty minutes, out of the house, onto the bus and into nursery before dashing to work for nine am meetings. A week of deadlines and downpours and a good time to revisit the beaches around Ventnor.
We have also been laughing about the Miss Rush Hours’ predilection for unblemished beaches. It seems they want their beaches like their pasta – yellow with no bits. Seaweed (‘slime’) was inadmissable.