On Sunday morning, there are two sheep sauntering in a very confident manner down the street.
Unfazed by the local peloton of cyclists zooming past in formation, the sheep look right, look left and then look right again before crossing the main road, heading in the direction of Lyme Regis.
They'll be corralled in a garden soon, way before they have the chance to place their towels out on the sand or frolic about with buckets and spades. Their adventure will probably be over within minutes.
But they're out there, giving it a go.
I am out here too, with two little girls laden with sweets from the village shop, each one far exceeding their £2 allowance, Young children are canny like that. They knew I'd lose count once the liquorice bootlaces and fried egg candies started going in the basket at speed. There were just too many figures to add up in my head.
Unlike the sheep or indeed their grandmother, who got a grade three CSE in maths three times (even with private tuition), these children are not stupid.
This afternoon, we will be mostly painting pebbles.
It is nearing the end of the school holidays and the children have run out of interesting things to do. They're with me for the weekend and I rashly suggest covering the kitchen table with newspaper and getting out the acrylic paints.
The third girl has now graced us with her presence after being in bed until nearly lunchtime. Well, I tell the others when they wail that it's not fair and shouldn't they wake their sister up, it's what teenagers do. Just as plants need water and light to photosynthesise, teenagers need sleep in order to grow.
'But we need to grow, too, Granny,' the little one says. Which is true and I am unable to counter this argument. These days, what with Brexit shenanigans and age making my brain turn to mush, I've given up arguing and any rational thought. I just go with my heart.
So I distract them by getting out the pebbles I collected when I was last down at the beach.
There is a fight over who has the best-shaped pebble and then a fight over the two paint brushes. The middle sister discovers that painting with fingertips is actually better and another one elects to use a sponge, which leaves a brush for me and the third sister to use.
My own pebble was selected long ago and was used as the sign for my writing shed. It bore the words The Shed of Dreams (if you think it, the writing will come), lovingly crafted in red and purple. Over the months, though, the name has eroded along with my creative writing output. The Shed of Dreams has become The hed of reams, then The ed of eams before making absolutely no sense at all.
So while the girls are absorbed in their handiwork, I repaint the pebble with new colours and design.
And I am very pleased with it, particularly the little fluffy clouds.
Until one of them says: 'Those clouds look just like sheep, Granny. And what's a Srea of Dreams?'
Oh dear, back to the drawing board.
That's about it.
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