I’m writing from a hideously garish couch, sitting in front of large glass windows that look out over Avalon beach. The weather is wild and wet; the sea and the sky are both so grey it’s hard to discern the horizon. There are three Norfolk pines scraggily framing the view. It’s calming. We went for a walk yesterday evening down to the beach and wandered around the ocean pool, spray mixing with the light drizzle. Moody winter beaches are always so much more appealing than their brazen summer counterparts.
I’m away for a mid-week break with Tim’s mother and his sisters three (I like to phrase it that way as it sounds like they might be witches, although of course they’re anything but in all senses of the word). We’ve got three kids here too – my girl and two of her cousins. She’s fascinated with the older lad and watches his every move.
There’s shakshuka cooking on the stove for breakfast and it smells warm and spicy, rich. There’s chatter from the kitchen; I’m enjoying not being involved but rather at the periphery, on the edge of the bubble. I’m slightly groggy from a poor night’s sleep; nothing prohibitive but I’m aware I’m slower than usual, like the air is slightly thicker and it’s harder to move, to think.
There’s nothing to do today. It’s deliciously indulgent. There’s a book I might start to read, whales or dolphins or surfers to spot, a girl who is learning to sit, a recipe book to leisurely flip through and a cheese platter to nibble on. But mostly, I’m going to look out at that grey-on-grey, and think about the horizon.