Brockenhurst / broken and hurt

When I fell into bed drunk the previous night, I would have settled for arriving for my Saturday activity three hours late. It hadn't boded well at 4.30am. Hungover I boarded a train to Brockenhurst in the New Forest, to visit my work friend Katie and her husband Nick now they've relocated to the Dorset coast from Cambridgeshire. Trains ran late to serve as the permanent reminder that the rail franchise system in the UK is not fit for purpose, and accents gradually shifted towards a West Country lilt.

The weather was windy and chilly on that amazing stretch of beach flanking Bournemouth, and we made the most of it by constructing moats in the sand to await the tidal fill, and burying my legs to be replaced by a mermaid's tale. Other typical seaside experiences were delicious battered sausage and chips, a '99 with flake, putting my face in a fat lady wooden frame and being shat on by a gull. Katie's daughter is in a phase of needing to be in control of or first at everything, whether that be arriving up the path, jumping off the bottom step, unlocking the front door or turning on the radio. When we arrived back from the beach I forgot and strode to the door to await opening like a dutiful guest. This caused a meltdown. We all hope this phase will pass soon. It's very hard to keep up.