Fine Sand

There's a small drift of sand on the rug at my feet, which is reapplying itself to their soles as I write; I washed off a large quantity, but this lot came from my socks. It's even scratching my wrists as I type.

West Wittering Beach is beautiful, that's why I brought some of it back with me, even if it was an inadvertent souvenir.
I escaped with Offsprog One from under the lid of grey cloud that stifled London, and patiently forbore the traffic jams to get there.
Funny, though- the beach was relatively deserted. The sand is fine, fine, fine, perfect for ploughing with hot toes, and the sea is shallow and warm, paddling temperature today rather than swimming temperature, but still, space and air and a light breeze to blow away any lingering London troubles.
We had strawberries and raspberries and... mini poppadums, of course.
McSis has a splendid tan, having carefully baked herself for a week while we were suffering drizzle in town. She had foldy chairs and a windbreak, and a pair of handy clip-on visors to keep the sun out of our eyes.
In the distance large blobs of grey materialised into ships and ferries, turning aimlessly and slowly wending their way over the horizon. Slow motion time, holiday time.

How nice it would be on a sunny winter's day to stretch out my arms an run from one end of the beach to the other- miles and miles of running on sand, busy doing nothing and going nowhere!