“It’s a sure sign of summer if the chair gets up when you do” – Walter Winchell. It is mid-August and the sun is frying, the sea is warm and even the seagulls are quiet. We get up early to swim in the morning heat and before the tourists arrive to put themselves on dial 6 to slow bake. There is a group of regulars and we bob our heads to each other in recognition. We say hello to the ancient, leathered-skin French ladies in bikinis, the Italian family that brings a suitcase of towels, food, umbrellas to set up for the day, and the neighbours standing in the sea gesturing about how the world is ending. An English family of Bella, Arthur and Olly are on holiday. Bella bellows happily, Arthur is constantly told he is not listening as he dives again underwater and Olly squeals in delight each time his feet get splashed by a wave. We swim out to the pontoon admiring the tribe of young men who are admiring themselves as tall, tanned and taut, they throw each off the platform. The afternoons are spent in-doors in a slow boredom of reading books, checking emails and deciding what to eat. We are half-way through the month, relishing a breeze of any kind and complain knowing we will be wishing for it back in the coming months.
