“A beach house isn’t just real estate. It’s a state of mind.”
I have spent the last three weekends in three different beach houses. In fact, in the last 16 days I’ve only spent two days away from the seaside. It has been glorious. From exuberant weddings to much-needed solo time to hanging out with family, it’s been a restful and restorative series of June weekends. I left London dog tired; I return energised for a huge new work project and excited about a summer of socialising. Yes, I definitely recommend the calm peace of the beach house state of mind.
Photo courtesy of A to Sub Bee
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On Friday I took a walk along the South West Coastal Path from where I was staying to an area of sand dunes that I’d read were popular with naked sunbathers. It was a long and occasionally precarious walk which didn’t always play that well with my fear of heights and vertigo; at one point I was stuck rigid to the spot with the cliff dropping away to my left, unable to move until a couple appeared from the opposite direct and pride forced me to take a deep breath and move on.
But when I got to the beach and found my hidden corner of the sand dunes the view made it all seem worthwhile. It was my first naked sunbathing experience away from my own garden and I’m sure it won’t be my last. I did get the train back though!
My train from the suburbs arrives into London Bridge. At the time he was working just over the river. It’s a hot July day and I’m not really concentrating. My phone pings.
“Fancy sucking my cock?”
“I’ll get the next train.”
“I’ll see you in The Vintry”
An hour later I’m walking back across the bridge to get the train home. A man double takes as I dip my fingers into my cleavage and lick the spunk from them.
I giggle and text him.
“That’s a really hot message! That was really hot.”
Forty minutes later I’m back at my desk.
I’ve thought about that every single time I’ve crossed London Bridge since. That’s my London Bridge memory. It’ll always be my London Bridge memory.
I’ve spent a lot of time outside these last couple of weeks. My step count is *awesome*! I’ve been stopped by strangers telling me they’ve always voted Tory but are switching to Labour. I’ve discovered that a remarkable number of people leave their front doors open, even in London. And I’ve learnt that as many letterboxes eat your fingers as did when I delivered newspapers three decades ago!
I’ve enjoyed sun and not enjoyed humidity. And I’ve been caught in torrential downpours; yesterday not even my underwear stayed dry when I got caught in a storm. I may not be naked, but I’m wet and right now campaigning is the sexiest thing I could be doing.