Saturday

On Saturday, our church held a coffee morning. Afterwards we wandered the twenty yards down the road to the beach and sat on the sea wall. The weather was idyllic: the seductive aspect of global warning. My husband took some (slightly blurry) pictures on his phone camera.

The air was warm and perfectly still. On the beach, dog-walkers strolled while their charges sniffed seaweed or galloped about, leaving deep paw-prints. A few children built sandcastles with buckets, spades and deep concentration. The sea was a glassy blue and the waves whispered politely as they folded themselves on to the sand. There were a few strands of cloud resting gently on a bright blue sky.

A friend of ours was down by the water with his two grandsons, who were very busy with buckets. The boys’ father used to play rugby for Scotland and they seem to have inherited his speed and stamina. Beyond them, a boat moved through the middle distance, contrasting decoratively with the sea.

On such a day, you’d think that all was well with the world. Tension seeped out of the soles of my feet.

Then we went home. I spent the afternoon at the supermarket, heaving around an unusually full trolley of food (human and cat) and litter (cat). It cost £180. Sigh.

But yes, I know: we’re lucky to have food and to the money to pay for it. And to have cats.

And the memory of that golden morning has warmed me through the week as I’ve looked through the college windows at the Indian summer outside.