The weather men were hedging their bets. A dark cloud with rain drops falling out of it and a sun peeking from behind. Don't get me started. I loathe those charlatans and their computer predictions of doom. Why don't they want people to go outside? In defiance I leaped out of bed and began packing. Ok ok ok so I don't do packing. But I did get dressed in about three seconds using my patented technique...
How to get dressed in three and a half seconds: TM
1: When you get undressed pull down trousers and boxers and socks in one movement leaving them on the floor by the bed where they fell.
2: Take off shirt and chuck on floor.
3: Stand, bleary eyed, in position with feet in trouser legs. Slip on socks. Pull up trousers and boxers in one fluid motion.
4: Pick up shirt off floor and put on.
We left the flat in record time and were at Victoria in time for the 9:45 train. For reading material I had the Sunday Times, the Hesperus edition of A Hero of Our Time by Mikhail Lermontov and Charlie and Lola's Haircut Sticker Book. I read about Russian troops fighting Georgians in South Ossetia, then read about Russian troops seducing Caucasian women in South Ossetia then stuck funny wigs on Charlie that were really meant for Lola whilst yelling with glee at a passing JCB racing track. Most of my life consists of similarly bizarre clashes of media and culture these days.
Arriving in Broadstairs we bought our meat pies filled with real Kent meat and then slapped on the sun cream and hit the beach. But that's cutting a longer story short. To get to the beach we had to negotiate troops of Morris dancers and ale-quaffing, bell-covered folk-music lovers. It was Broadstairs folk week. (Another clash of cultures that. Ale drinking plump middle-aged folk VS lager swilling, skinny teen wide boys and their scantily clad, breezer drinking schoolgirlfriends. )
On the beach we had great times building sandcastles and stamping on them.
Then we had great times catching creatures. (A small crab, several shrimp and a beautiful starfish - all released back into the wild as soon as mum had seen them.)
While Finn slept I drank Hobgoblin and consumed the remains of the paper (yes I ate it) whilst
the Maz wandered round the folk stalls. She later described them as selling "the biggest pile of tat I've ever seen". I was very relieved to see she didn't come back with a rainbow coloured hat. What is it about folk music that makes people appreciate rainbow hats? And clogs. And baggy striped trousers? The music is often great but the apparel is fu*king terrible.
Finn woke up and we ate dripping ice-creams and listened to an impromptu folk gig that started on the bench opposite us. I really do love folk music. But why? Why? Why? Why the bad clothes? Even I - possibly the most fashion challenged man in the world - can see how dumb those people look. The kids might be pissed up and loud but at least they looked great.
And all the while the sun beat down. White heat. Blue sky. The sounds of the sea and accordions.
Then back to London after a brief argument about who lost Finn's shoes.
In London it was raining. Raining and raining.
But we took a chance and went to be beside the seaside and had a lovely day.