The Beach

In a further, obviously desperate attempt to keep Finnish K on the books, we took her to the beach.

We're always at the beach. All that sand blowing in our faces and the wind blowing our towels everywhere, and salty water with unknown, slimy creatures with razor-sharp teeth swimming in it. We can't get enough.

Look how adept Child Two is at walking on the sand.

That kind of litheness only comes from being constantly at the beach.

We all dress for the beach. Shoes, socks, tights, long pants etc.

That's a nappy ready to explode.

The waves weren't too big, but it was cold and gusty. Martha's mullet blew wildly in the wind.

Rudolph Nureyev was desperate for a swim. I said nicely, in my 'don't-horrify-the-Finnish-girl' voice, that "If you so much as think of getting your pants wet, brother, you're in big trouble."

So, imagine my horror when a single, freakish, tsunami-sized wave pushed him off his feet against his strongest attempts to resist its power?

He agreed to be stoic and stand in the wind to dry off.

At the beach, there's still the occasional 60s block of holiday units.

I admire their dogged resistance to big developers.

From this height, we saw a whale swimming very close to the shore, travelling north. It was very exciting.

They're cute. But they're noisy and they all scream ALL THE TIME. You can borrow them if you don't believe me.