Yesterday saw the holiday in the shed draw to its obvious conclusion. As befitting a last day, we trolleyed up to the Sea Shanty at the end of the cobbled road and ordered breakfast. Full English for the husband again (he'll be sorry when he puts those work trousers back on). Here's how the conversation went:
Me: A Full English breakfast please, a bacon, sausage and egg bap and three toasted teacakes.
SS: We've got no eggs so we're only doing baps.
Me: OK. One bacon and sausage bap, three toasted teacakes and a Full English without the eggs
SS: As I said, we're only doing baps, so can't do the Full English
Me: (Jokingly) Can't you get some eggs from the shop next door?
SS: They've got no eggs either. That's why we we're only doing baps.
Me: (Now realising that the Sea Shanty have a non-humour clause when employing staff)
OK. I'll have two sausage and bacon baps and three toasted teacakes.
All of this and three hot drinks amounted to £23.00 so we were assuming that these baps would be something else again. Well they turned up and looked rather meagre to tell you the truth. Not buttered (don't get this, as you wouldn't not butter a ham or cheese sandwich, would you?) one piece of bacon, and one sausage sliced so thinly it was almost transparent. Our menfolk were not best pleased I can tell you.
It was then onto the beach for the rest of the day, where the four of baked gently in the sun. The shout came up for alcohol around 11.55. The mother thought this a tad early, but once we'd calculated how long it would take the husband to go the shed, retrieve beer and wine and return, we figured it would be past midday, so perfectly acceptable.
We had taken the two dogs down the beach, where they destroyed every other beachcomber's day in some shape or form, beating up other dogs, scrounging for food, shaking over unsuspecting sunbathers and dragging seaweed willy-nilly.
Reg, who I can always count on to let me down, excelled himself though. As I was heading back to the shed for refills of wine, he sort of followed me, but took a slight detour to a rather large gentleman who was face down in the sand fast asleep, his head nestled in a cosy cushion. As Reg headed over to him, I was trying everything I could to stop Reg from actually reaching him, knowing that a wet nose in the face is not the nicest way of waking up. (I speak from experience). Reg, getting the hint from my whispered threats sort of got the idea that he had to come away, and simply cocked his leg up the cushion. The only positive was that the man didn't wake up and was none the wiser.
As the afternoon drew to a close, the tide turned, and the husband started telling us that we would be perfectly fine staying where we were. He was proved wrong on several occasions, one of which was when the tide caught hold of one half of his dreaded summer footwear. I almost cheered as it was drawn out to sea, but 'luckily' the husband managed to rescue it.
One day, my friends, those sandals will end up somewhere where he can't hear them scream....