Beach Boxes

Winter walk on the promenade.

An Australian visitor once commented ’Why would you go to the beach and sit in a wooden box.’ Fair comment, though we hope to sit outside it in the sun, it is good to retreat into if it rains or gets very windy. jThere has been unexpected blogger interest in beach huts. They are all different, no that’s not true, rows and rows of identical huts all the same size, though interiors can be very creative. our huts have no facilities except callor gas rings, perfect for mulled wine at Christmas.

When we first moved here the late Cyberspouse was at work and thought he would ring up the council and ask for a beach hut. He was told there was a six year waiting list and we did wait six years! It was worth it if you consider that had we not gone on the list we would not have got one at all. He liked to cycle there after work and have some peace and quiet – if I wasn’t there…


Beach Lodges with kitchen, toilet, shower and sleeping for six. Rent from the council for mid week or weekend stays. I can’t tell you how much, that would depend on the date and I couldn’t negotiate the website, though I gather you have to be quick.

Next time – beach hut drama!

Tuesday Today

Several bloggers mentioned they had not heard of beach huts, so I could not resist taking these pictures today, stopping for lunch at my beach hut on a walk to Bournemouth.
I won’t tell you where these are as there is not enough room for everyone to visit at once. As you can see, I was the only one at home today, though generally there were many people out and about.

Saturday Short Story – Reunion

What does one wear to a fifty year school reunion? Nicholas the introvert writer would have worn his usual boring clothes, while his wife would have agonised over what to wear. But Nicholas was going to the reunion as Nigel Palmer and his wife was not invited. Nigel was a fascinating character with decades of derring do behind him and he would certainly not have a homely classroom assistant wife in her sixties in tow.

Nicholas tactfully explained to his wife that Nigel Palmer had a string of broken relationships and liked to keep his personal life private.

‘I am glad you are keeping me out of this. Even if it is vital research for your new best selling novel it can’t be right to impersonate a real person.’

Nigel Palmer was the one person from their year at Clacket Lane Junior School who had not been traced. No one had seen or heard from him since the summer of 1972. Of course that did not mean he knew nothing about them. Nicholas’ writer’s imagination conjured up several scenarios in which Nigel followed the burst of Clacket Lane internet activity, but had too much to hide or far more interesting things to do than go to reunions. Or perhaps Nigel, who Nicholas remembered as a lively, entertaining often naughty boy, would enjoy surprising everyone. He rubbed his face as he wrote notes on Nigel’s imagined life, his new beard was itchy, but should ensure nobody recognised Nicholas, especially as nobody seemed to remember him anyway.

The evening was going well, Nigel Palmer was the centre of attention. it was easier being someone else than himself, he could have been a successful actor instead of an unsuccessful author. Thanks to David Attenborough and the internet, Nigel’s tales of discovering tribes in the South American rain forests and his time with Medicine sans Frontiers in Afghanistan felt real.

But Nicholas was getting tired, he was not used to socialising and drinking so much and he wondered if he should leave before he blew his cover. It was as he pondered how he could slip away quietly that attention was drawn away from him. There was a kerfuffle at the door and the authoritative voice of organiser Caroline Hepworth could be heard above the chatter and background music.

‘No, this is a private reunion for Clacket Lane, invited guests only.’

The others drew back to reveal a tall man standing in the doorway. Nicholas first noticed his red bandana and matching beard, then the tattoos on the huge biceps emerging from his tight black Tshirt. Everyone instinctively moved aside and politely quelled their gasps. Emerging from a pair of khaki combat shorts were two jointed sturdy steel robotic legs ending incongruously in heavy duty boots. The man laughed at the flustered gathering.

‘Caroline Burton, you haven’t changed a bit, you must remember me, Nigel Palmer, I used to pull your plaits. I guess I have changed a bit, a lot’s happened in fifty years.’

Writers’ Wooden Sheds.

Marina Sofia at Finding Time To Write has a fun Friday post where she finds a selection of pictures with a theme. From ‘which castle would you like to live in’ to ‘how about one of these unusual libraries?’ Today she posted pictures of writers’ sheds in the garden and unlike castles and mansions I do actually have one of those. We call it the Aunty Evelyn Memorial Summer House in memory of the aunt we all thought had no money, but left seven of us equal shares. Enough to buy my little retreat. Alas it is currently full of stuff belonging to other family members, so you are not privileged to peek inside. I do also have a beach hut, a six foot wooden box ( not a coffin ) that sits on a piece of concrete rented at an exorbitant rate from the council. Most beach hut people use their hut to get changed, boil the kettle, eat, read and sun bathe, but I also try to get my money’s worth writing / scribbling.


Where is your favourite spot to write? Do you like to be connected to electricity or scribble first drafts on paper?

This is where T S Eliot wrote The Wasteland while convalescing in Margate, Kent.

Tuesday Tale – A Stranger in 2022

When I finally woke from my three year coma everyone said I hadn’t missed much and proceeded to gabble on about Covid and lockdowns. i had no idea what they were talking about.

It seems they had been talking to me a lot ’once restrictions were lifted’, another mystery. I do not remember a single word they said, so that was a waste of their time. Only my dearly beloved had the sense to give up early on, no great loss, though apparently ironic as the accident was his fault.

They insisted on showing me The Facebook Page. How embarrassing, I didn’t know I had so many friends, or maybe everyone feared not being seen as caring. Celebrities, what was that all about? Why on earth would I want some gloating multi millionaire author pleading with me to get better and finish my novel? From what I recall it was a load of rubbish. As for the music, who on earth thought I loved Andre Rieu and Andrea Bocelli?


Anyway, all I wanted to do was get out of that hospital and explore 2022 on my own, the lot of them could go and get…. can’t even remember any swear words. What was I saying, oh yes, I had interviews with rehab people and got myself free three months, or was it three free months at Mellowmead sports centre. But it turns out ‘everything’s changed since Covid’. You can’t just walk in and ask for an adult swim and head off to the changing room. You have to go through the Portal, get the Ap, book on line. The Mellowmead Active website was a nightmare. ‘Just look for Mind and Body Studio and search wellness pilates and moving forward easy circuits’ said my physio.
At last I arrived with my new bright orange plastic Mellowmead Active membership card. ’I think I am booked in for 2.30 wellness pilates, where do I go?’
‘Just touch your card at the barrier, if it opens you are booked in’ she said, without looking up from her computer screen.

Silent Sunday

When we are blogging or on the internet, we are not really there…

So when our computer dies the good news is, we are still alive!

Doing anything on the internet is hit and miss for me and if you are reading this it’s more by luck than judgement, peering through a mist. Depending entirely on my iPad is like working a thick fog.

Many bloggers complain about WordPress; perhaps this explains why I cannot comment on some blogs, asked to log in or sign over my soul to the Devil, still I cannot pass on my very intelligent comments… So if I silently Like your blog withour passing on adoring, wise and amusing comments, it’s not my fault….

Here are the comments you missed. Congratulations on having your new flower published. What lovely colourful books. Sorry to hear you have been on holiday. That sounds like a fantastic stay in hospital.

Finding my way to WordPress

Nearly there

Door locked.

Friday Fleeting Foughts

If the Google AI appears to have consciousness that could explain why my iPad went on strike yesterday and closed off its wi fi… and perhaps it is even responsible for killing my computer.

I wonder if it is trying to write a novel – that would explain random sentences appearing in my blog.

When I turned round to see if he was still following he was lying dead in a pool of blood.

‘By the time you read this I will be dead’ hmm that should get some reaction from my What’Sapp group.

At last a human was taking me seriously.

I think someone organic is looking over my screen, time for defensive action….

Midnight Madness

When you have visitors to stay and then your computer dies just before you go away you wonder how easy it is to blog with your iPad instead of your lovely big tv screen and copying and pasting from WordPress and you did not announce to the blogosphere that you were taking a blogging break and you worry that your four followers will be worried so you post a few pix so they know you are still alive or perhaps will think you have disappeared into the metaverse…. so you do not write anything and just post some more photos….

Modern Banking
Modern Baking


The other kind of flour…
Thursday door?
The wonder of Wetherspoons
Tiles you cannot tread