It was a day to blow the cobwebs away.
So, despite still not feeling top-hole (as they say) Mr B and I head down to the promenade for a bit of seafront therapy. This is
much cheaper than retail therapy and far more invigorating, especially on a windy afternoon. I highly recommend it.
We go via the bowling green so that Mr B can check out whether the Council groundsmen have
erected an electric fence to keep the foxes out. There is, indeed, a fence with yellow warning tags pinned on it at strategic intervals, informing curious passers-by that it is electrified but Mr B is concerned because he can't actually see where / if it has
been plugged in to a mains supply. I tell him that I am not about to test it out as my Mum always told me that electricity is dangerous and not to be meddled with. She said that about Mr B too but I ignored her and look where that landed me. Only joking!
There are a few large holes in the fence through which the bushy-tailed ones might well have gained access to the hallowed green. It looks, according to Mr B, "in a bad way." We inspect the green in silence as we traipse
around the perimeter, looking for more signs of trespass by vulpine visitors.
We (this is a Royal "we", as you might have guessed) like to keep a watchful eye on such things. Though, to be strictly honest,
our main reason for being in the vicinity is that outside the gardens where the bowling green is situated is the easiest place to park on a sunny Sunday afternoon when the World and His Wife have opted for a stroll along the prom.
There being nothing we can realistically do about the state of the bowling green, we saunter through the gardens and out onto the promenade. We cross the road by the traffic lights. Directly opposite, a handily-placed shelter in which
we can sit and watch the waves - and the world go by.
The sea, though possibly a little grey and stormy-looking, does not look as if it could have swept those two poor guys on Brighton beach, just along the
way from us, to their deaths. How tragic that the sea, which on bright, clear, sunny, summer's days gives so much pleasure to so many sun and sea worshippers can be so cruel and heartless.
A couple with a
young greyhound clamber over the low sea wall onto the beach. The dog looks as if it would far prefer a good run along the prom and it negotiates the wall with a clumsiness that belies its streamlined appearance; nevertheless the threesome set off at a fair
lick across the stony beach until we lose sight of them. A young family joins us in the shelter. They have brought flasks containing warm drinks and plastic containers in which what looks very much like a chicken salad lunch has been prepared. They are all
wrapped up warmly against the elements and are clearly enjoying the adventure of a Winter Picnic. I think aloud that maybe we should bring a flask of coffee and a sandwich or two with us next time - but Mr B suggests that instead we make for the Marine Gardens
Cafe where we can enjoy a mug of hot coffee and a bun. I am not about to argue with him. Not given that I am, you well know, one who is Always Thinking About Her Stomach.
The cafe, unlike the promenade, is
crowded with customers enjoying Sunday Lunch Without Cooking. While Mr B joins the queue at the counter, I head for a convenient table for two - only to find that it is reserved for somebody called Harry. Who is Harry, I wonder, and when will he turn up to
claim his table? Might there be just enough time for Mr B and I to down our coffee and bun before he makes his presence known? But, no, I am a law-abiding citizen, you see. I leave Harry's table to itself and manage to find an adjacent table from which I can
keep an eye on Harry's arrival. Or not, as the case may be.
Our scones are extremely crumbly and I am concerned to see that several crumbs have escaped onto the floor beneath our table. Mr B says they are
not the best scones he has ever tasted but I don't think they are that bad. I think he is probably just a trifle miffed that they didn't have any cheese scones,which are his favourite. We chat about the Andrew Marr programme,which we watched this morning,
our delicious meal with our friend Avril to celebrate Mr B's birthday last night, and the week ahead, as mapped out in our new 2015 calendar until Mr B says he thinks it is time to go.
Harry still hasn't turned
up as we leave the cafe. Perhaps he is down on the prom, watching the waves? Does he have a companion, I wonder? Like, is there a Mrs Harry who will share his Table for Two? Will they order Sunday Lunch or just a coffee and a bun like us?
You are probably thinking that it wasn't the most exciting of outings but I beg to differ. We can't all travel to exotic places, dine with the famous, enjoy once in a lifetime experiences. Not every Sunday afternoon, anyway.
For some of us, there are the delights of a sea-front shelter overlooking the beach, a crumbly scone and the prospect of (possibly) meeting Harry.
Such is life.