The culprit

Not sure if I have ever hinted at it, but I have this day job, like, and it's not exactly relaxationville, like.
So my lunch break is very precious to me.
And I ALWAYS make sure that I take my full hour break, just to switch off completely before the referee blows the whistle for the beginning of the second half (or to stick with a whistle analogy, before the Sergeant blows in the whistle and we climb out of the trenches to rush into the enemy's barbed wire...)
It also happens that on rare occasions the sun shines between 1 and 2 pm (or rather, it happens that the sun shines on rare occasions. Full stop. If it happens to be between 1 and 2 pm, this is called a sign from the Almighty).
I love to go and sit on the steps as close to the water as possible and pretend that I am far far away.

But then there is the big black daft happy dog. He is big, black, daft and extremely happy. He is a creature with a routine. Every day his mrs. throws the tennis ball in the harbour. He runs down the steps. Dives into the harbour. Brings back the tennis ball. Everyone's happy.

Sort off...

Who needs to be dry to head back to the office anyway?