You take a day off. From Life. You take yourself to the beach before the southerly change arrives. You sit by the water, effacing life. You’re in your zone. You write.

You go for a dip in the cool waters. You chat to the beach regulars. They chat to you. You encourage others to dunk themselves in the water. They’ll get used to it. Just as others have encouraged you. You return to your beach towel. You write.

You pack up and head off to meet for lunch by the sea. You catch up on life, everything, a précis of the past eighteen months over fish and chips and dry white wine.

You swap personal thoughts, him more than you. The second Chardonnay gets you talking, of, dare you call it a friendship yet? You’ve known each other for over ten years, you realise. You try to tell him what he means to you, a man of high esteem, a previous mentor, a man who gave you your career opportunity and a wonderful human being, in your eyes. You stumble with your words, yet you call yourself a writer. And when you start to mumble he gives a warm knowing smile and says, “I already knew that”.

Then you part ways and return to your oasis by the sea, that patch of sand you have claimed as yours. And you dunk yourself in the cool afternoon waters.

Life, sometimes, cannot get better than that.