It’s been just over a week, and things are starting to feel… well, “normal” would be an overstatement, but it’s getting to the point where I kind of have to stop being so bloody emo and feeling sorry for myself.
I’ll say thank you – genuinely, thank you – to everyone who got in touch and sent me messages, texts, DMs, carrier pigeons and virtual flowers (how modern are we? The internetz are awesome). I might not have been very good at replying, but they were appreciated more than I could possibly express. If nothing else, this has shown me what wonderful friends I have: from the ones I’ve known for years and years to the ones I’ve only really met (so far, anyway) online.
And now, I think I’m going to move on. Because if nothing else, this is an excellent way to procrastinate. Not only am I supposed to be winding up the final chapters of The Book What I Have Been Writing (and which is now leaving me going: “Why did I do that? What was I thinking???” at various points through the 90,000 odd words…. very odd words.) but I’ve got a eulogy to write. An eulogy. Whatever.
Anyway, moving on.
I think I could really get to love Brighton. On Monday, it was cold and drizzly and I took Small Boy down to the beach. Apart from a couple of dog-walkers, we had it entirely to ourselves.
Today, the sun was shining and even though the wind was freezing, I laughed at it from the safety of my snuggly new snowboarding jacket. (Three days after moving down here, I realised that my typical London-dweller’s outerwear was far more suited to hopping on and off buses than it was to dealing with February coastal winds. This was not a battle I could win. I didn’t try. I hied me to the nearest shop and bought a jacket which makes me resemble a chocolate Michelin Man. But I’m warm.)
So today we went to the beach and threw stones into the waves, and watched the seagulls being seagulls – for which read “incredibly noisy, and generally menacing”…
(it’s funny because it’s true) … and we built a series of small stone towers which will prove vital to the defence of the realm come the Zompocalypse. Or at least, they would if they weren’t made of pebbles and stood about 4 inches high.
Basically, if we’re invaded by tiny, undead pirates? Relax, I’ve got it covered. Anything else and, umm, we’re screwed.
Also, as Small Boy did his best to dig another Channel Tunnel using only a piece of driftwood which I suspect started out life as an ice-lolly stick, I vaguely recalled reading something about the beach being mined during the Second World War.
I really hope they remembered where they put them all.