The sun is out, you have a view of the sea, there is a beer on the go, there is a curry simmering on the stove and there is tendency to think in terms of completeness and satisfaction. You think back to mid afternoon the day before when you sat on a flat rock and watched the sea-pond barely ripple, suddenly spotting a head moving through the water and wondering how and why a person would happen to swim so unobtrusively in such a context, appearing to come from the sea towards you. You then realise it’s a dog, serenely cruising the oceans, content without its owner. But it’s a seal. The seal has come to let you know that you can’t in fact move into the sea-bound cave that you can pick out in the cliff face across the bay, and that the logistics of a rock-hewn home cinema would be beyond reasonable means. The seal also nods in the direction of the vegetation that you have to hack through to get back up from the beach, concealing the ground and making some steps a potential tumble to the pebbles, all because your mum’s dog died a few years ago and no-one beats a path down there anymore. But the seal suggests that you appease your curiosity all the same about the derelict beach hut that you photographed all that time ago, before you plan your ascent through the undergrowth. A vestigial fireplace is still there, and there is a post-apocalyptic slightly rusting Strongbow can, along with signs of improvised burning. Undergrowth. Trampling of snail cities. Some cardiovascular benefit. The attention of flies. An evening in the company of Elijah Wood illuminating things with the aid of Borat, before fast forwarding to now when the sun has gone in but we continue to make plans. Economic growth must still be. Karl must continue to wait in the green room and we must continue to be buffeted by manufactured hatred of media moguls whose pensions do not depend on the swallowing of custard pies.
But wait. The sun’s out again.