The UK holiday is finished. For another year.photo (5)
So is the litre bottle of gin.
In the end, the sun shone. All week. This is unprecedented. I should know. I’ve been coming to Bournemouth since I was twelve. Every year. I know the sweet smell of the timeshare lifts, which still have the same carpeted walls. Retro. I could sleepwalk the wiggly, woggly way to the beach.
We would spend a fortnight here when I was little. Usually in bad weather. My optimistic dad would spend 14 days convincing me, my sister and my sun-worshipping mum that there was indeed enough blue sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers. His way of saying it would brighten up. I had faith in his analogy although it rarely fulfilled its promise.