My Beautiful Day
Posted on August 29, 2014
My most beautiful day would take place in Cornwall, in Constantine Bay near Padstow, where we go every year for the week of the August Bank Holiday. My in-laws have a holiday home there and scores of friends and extended family descend for that week.
I would be woken by the smell of bacon wafting up from the kitchen and my husband bringing me a cup of tea. I would be wearing a crisp, white, cotton nightdress and ideally not the clothes I had been wearing the day before. I would be well rested, slightly tanned and radiant, I would doze until ten – I would not be grumpy with a hangover and bad breath stumbling around the kitchen eating softened holiday-home breakfast cereal with the consistency of Blue-Tack because it was purchased sometime back in 1987.
My children would be up and dressed having made their own breakfast and cleared up after themselves. I would not have to threaten to take a hammer to the television or their social media devices, they would surrender them willingly, saying ‘Oh Mother, please may we go into the garden and frolic in this glorious sunshine?’ For this day to be truly beautiful, it would be imperative that they applied their own suncream.
I would go for a long walk along the coast with my girlfriends, the dog would behave himself and I would feel no guilt at having abandoned my family. An ice-cream van would be parked just at the spot where I began to flag and it would sell a new brand of salted caramel that was calorie-free. Shorts and walking boots would be an excellent look for me.
Later that day we would all go to the beach, there would be ample parking and there would be a fleet of donkeys to carry our picnic, towels, buckets, spades, books and jerseys down to the perfect spot, sheltered from the wind – what am I saying? There would not be a breath of wind. The children would offer to reapply their own suncream.
As my offsrping surfed, I would lie in the sun and read the paper and perhaps even have a little snooze. I would most definitely not be at the water’s edge, pacing up and down, scanning the waves like a deranged meerkat, desperately trying to identify their little heads amongst the hundreds of other little heads and waiting for a rip tide to strike and carry them all off to certain death in front of my very eyes.
That evening we would be back on the beach. I would be wearing a sexy fleece. I would be drinking cold Sancerre rather than warm Liebfraumilch from a box. The barbecue would be instantly hot and the sausages would taste more of sausage than sand. The campfire would light instantly and every generation would be word perfect on ‘Where Do You Go To My Lovely?’ ‘That’s What Makes You Beautiful’ and a medley of Take That classics.
That night, when the donkeys had finished unloading the dishwasher, there would be an episode of Inspector Morse on the television that for some reason I had never seen before, and I would doze off in front of it, waking just in time to find out who the murderer was and that John Thaw had not died but had married a nice lady who loved opera and vintage cars, and a whole new series was in the pipeline.
KATE ANTHONY 17/08/14