With my mother leading, we struggled up the dunes to the car park, half-empty hampers bumping at our heels.
I studied the great white slabs of my mother’s calves, lightly blue-threaded, as we approached the car where Father was already waiting, drumming angry fingers on the steering-wheel.
Close by, a large seagull was attacking a smaller bird for a crust. After feeble resistance, the smaller bird abandoned the crust, as if this would stop the onslaught and inevitable finale.
Nor would curtailing our day on the beach.
I resolved at that moment – this will not be my life.
Sitting here listening to rain pattering steadily on the conservatory roof. The first, it seems, in weeks. And now back to cooler weather. Thanks to Rochelle for leading the Friday Fictioneers. Stay safe.