The sun always shines in Ramsgate. Although this statement may not be literally true, last summer was Mediterranean and the week we've spent here since Easter has been zephyr-kissed. Thoughts turn to beach huts. Walking through Botany Bay, we notice that the first few have already returned from their winter migration, and the cafe is open for a few hardy souls (zephyrs blow more sweetly in our garden than by the sea).
We are new to beach huts, but eagerness is honed by Jonathan Dimbleby's memories of the family cabin at West Wittering, published in the CPRE's Icons of England: ‘Sand was always piled up against the door... Some of the finer grains would have infiltrated the hut itself.' Primus stoves, faded deckchairs, black car inner tubes to make rubber rings, jam sandwiches flecked with sand, Bovril-one won't be able to reproduce all those glories of childhood, but let's hope the essence remains unchanged.
Son William is also keen that, in London, we should go up St Stephen's Tower to Big Ben. All you need to do is to contact your MP, apparently. As yet, our MP has not replied to my email. I point out to William that he may have other things on his mind at present, but that cuts no ice at all.
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