It was supposed to be wet and windy, but surprise surprise! there was not a cloud, not a whisper of a breeze. A man with a wet finger in the air could foretell the weather better than the Met Office sometimes. And so we went to Aldeburgh and schlepped along the beach right at the edge of the incoming tide. We headed towards Thorpeness, but this was no route march. Instead we pithered along, studying the pebbles and stones, trying again and again to find perfectly flat ones for skimming on the water. My very first one bounced five times, but thereafter I only managed a few doubles, most of my stones disappearing under the frothy waves. My companion fared no better. But she made me laugh. What time is high tide, she asked me? Well, it varies every day doesn't it, I replied. Half an hour on in the morning, another half hour later in the evening, and on and on. Really, she said? I thought it was always at the same time.
We walked smartly back along the track overtaking very old people, people in wheelchairs, toddlers. But every dog we passed had to be acknowledged and fussed over. Animal lovers are like this. It doesn't matter how mangy the creature, how ugly or misshapen, they all matter. The mole so cleverly dispatched by Sid was brought up, my ethical position discussed. I didn't stand a chance. What's a garden full of molehills compared to the life of one of god's creatures? Well, don't ask me. You know what I think.
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