Not an Anthony Gormley

This blip is dedicated to JoppaStrand and Tiggy, who have temporarily forsaken Portobello beach for another three and a half thousand miles away.

It was the kind of day which demanded a trip to the seaside, a coffee in the Beach House and a leisurely stroll in the sun from Portobello to Joppa soaking up the atmosphere of spring.

The Beach House was quiet save for the 3 year old child at an adjoining table who sang and shouted for half an hour in a voice which would have filled the Albert Hall without the need of a microphone, and whose mother let it happen, until in exasperation at the assault on my eardrums, I turned round to see the offender.
At last her Mama got the message and made an attempt to quieten her. All this leaves me wondering why some parents make no effort to teach their offspring manners.

Outside in the golden silence, the sun shone, the children built sandcastles, while their parents chatted on the sea wall and the dogs paddled at the water's edge of a tide far out.
There was no-one in swimming, but there were a few bathing suits in evidence.
We took photographs and peered into the tent of the New York pianist who has pitched up on the sand in front of Portobello Swimming Pool.
The story goes that he was asked to leave his home by his wife and thought it would be fine to take his piano and live on the beach: a Porty beach bum in effect.
There seemed no one at home when we called, but the flap said always open and there was a youngster inside make use of the piano.
It does seem strange that the tent hasn't been moved on by the town vigilantes, but remains, weeks after the story hit the headlines.