Dear Diary, Last evening Anne and I chatted as though the intervening years had not existed. We laughed recalling old school years, the teacher who threatened to report the class to the Rector, walked the length of the corridor, stood a few minutes [a 'spy' kept watch], and returned to a class even more unruly. Thankfully we had an excellent teacher the following year and passed our all-important external exams. We remembered drippy boys, who no doubt turned out to be doctors or dentists in a far off town, we giggled about the girls who insisted they crept out the window after dark and the following morning regaled those the less daring, which was 99%, of their exploits. Piece by piece our school days were dissected; we wondered over our teenage years ... did we really, one evening, walk over a mile into town to attend "Jail House Rock" starring Elvis Presley. Did we wear stockings, and have our arms signed by a travelling singer? It all was such a long time ago.
It was well past both our bedtimes when we went to bed; my room was a small attic painted white, which made it light and airy. Flimsy pale blue curtains dressed the window that must be a trial to clean with its tiny panes set into crisp white paint. The bedcover, while light in weight, was particularly cosy stuffed as it was with goose-down. I loved its rich burgundy shade that cast a warm glow to what may have otherwise been a cold looking room. An old, distressed-painted dressing table provided ample storage for my few belongings. Mr Sandman visited the moment my head touched the pillow.
I had a restful sleep Dear Diary, and was awakened by the tempting aroma of cooking bacon. Slipping out of bed I padded to the window, flung open the pane and breathed in the smell of the distant briny. I wonder if there are many who are not amazed at the seaside; the millions of grains of sand settled into a golden carpet; the diversity of shells washed up with the tide twice a day to lie exposed to the sun that quickly bleaches the delicate colours; the birds parading their important task of cleaning the tidal mark; and the waves continually crashing in only to dissipate into a white foam that resembles a washing machine overloaded with soap powder.
Hurrying through my ablutions I padded down the narrow staircase, my feet alerting Anne of my arrival. Breakfast was served in a little nook; a small round table clothed in a snow-white cloth and lime green dishes and place mats and matching napkins in a tiny lime green and white check. In the middle of the table stood a glass filled with nasturtiums; simply effective. For a moment I stood, entranced with the scene before me. But the smell of bacon beckoned. Orange juice, bacon and tomatoes and toasted muffins were followed by coffee ... Dear Diary, what better breakfast is there when at the seaside?
With the day so lovely, so beachy, after clearing the table and washing up there was only one place to be ... on the sand.
The wind was cooler once outdoors; the surf crashed against rocks that I hadn't noticed from the house; and the seagulls screamed their antagonism towards the smaller birds that attempted to take flotsam that may or may not have been tasty. Anne and I, no doubt remembering our conversation last evening about our younger days, slipped off our shoes, tied the laces together and slung them over our shoulders before high-stepping to the water's edge. The water was cold. I let out a small scream; Anne looked surprised at the noise, but when she put her toes into the foam she too squealed. Wandering along, between sand and surf, we felt that overwhelming connection to ancient times; perhaps a sublime memory of when mankind came out of the ocean to dwell on the land.
Dear Diary the day was relaxing; we had a light lunch, read poetry aloud part of the afternoon, prepared a delicious evening meal, and reminisced for hours.
It was well past both our bedtimes when we went to bed; my room was a small attic painted white, which made it light and airy. Flimsy pale blue curtains dressed the window that must be a trial to clean with its tiny panes set into crisp white paint. The bedcover, while light in weight, was particularly cosy stuffed as it was with goose-down. I loved its rich burgundy shade that cast a warm glow to what may have otherwise been a cold looking room. An old, distressed-painted dressing table provided ample storage for my few belongings. Mr Sandman visited the moment my head touched the pillow.
I had a restful sleep Dear Diary, and was awakened by the tempting aroma of cooking bacon. Slipping out of bed I padded to the window, flung open the pane and breathed in the smell of the distant briny. I wonder if there are many who are not amazed at the seaside; the millions of grains of sand settled into a golden carpet; the diversity of shells washed up with the tide twice a day to lie exposed to the sun that quickly bleaches the delicate colours; the birds parading their important task of cleaning the tidal mark; and the waves continually crashing in only to dissipate into a white foam that resembles a washing machine overloaded with soap powder.
Hurrying through my ablutions I padded down the narrow staircase, my feet alerting Anne of my arrival. Breakfast was served in a little nook; a small round table clothed in a snow-white cloth and lime green dishes and place mats and matching napkins in a tiny lime green and white check. In the middle of the table stood a glass filled with nasturtiums; simply effective. For a moment I stood, entranced with the scene before me. But the smell of bacon beckoned. Orange juice, bacon and tomatoes and toasted muffins were followed by coffee ... Dear Diary, what better breakfast is there when at the seaside?
With the day so lovely, so beachy, after clearing the table and washing up there was only one place to be ... on the sand.
The wind was cooler once outdoors; the surf crashed against rocks that I hadn't noticed from the house; and the seagulls screamed their antagonism towards the smaller birds that attempted to take flotsam that may or may not have been tasty. Anne and I, no doubt remembering our conversation last evening about our younger days, slipped off our shoes, tied the laces together and slung them over our shoulders before high-stepping to the water's edge. The water was cold. I let out a small scream; Anne looked surprised at the noise, but when she put her toes into the foam she too squealed. Wandering along, between sand and surf, we felt that overwhelming connection to ancient times; perhaps a sublime memory of when mankind came out of the ocean to dwell on the land.
Dear Diary the day was relaxing; we had a light lunch, read poetry aloud part of the afternoon, prepared a delicious evening meal, and reminisced for hours.
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