Spring Tides

sea, sewage and a shift in seasons

For the avoidance of doubt, this is not me and Ros. We are not organised enough to have swim caps and floats ie. we aren’t in long enough. All hail those women who are.

The excitable birds outside the bedroom window have been waking me at first light. On the early morning walk, the dog no longer needs her bright glowstick rave collar and often by the time we reach the gate to the wood, I don’t need my coat. Misty starts burn off by elevenses and dazzling sun has shone through the winter dirty windows on several occasions. Twice I have hung bed sheets out on the line. I bought a big bag of cut-price tomatoes which were on the turn and roasted them with garlic and thyme, so if it rains we have soup and if it doesn’t we have passata for pasta and pizzas. What I am saying to you is that spring is almost here. If storms hit this weekend, then blame me for calling it too soon.

Spring has not reached the sea yet. The temperature bobs around at 8 degrees, although it went up to 9 for a moment. Not that we could detect it. My friend Ros and I have been forcing ourselves to get in the water every week, mainly because we tell each other we are ‘year-round’ swimmers which unfortunately means winter too. And it’s really no biggie we say because ‘it’s just what we do’ which means we actually have to do it.

We have tried to pick mornings when it hasn’t been raining, there are no big waves and nor is there a detectable undercurrent of swell or sewage, which gives us limited options. This week we got all those things right but didn’t factor in the stiff breeze which scooted over the sand, making walking in and out twice as painful. I realise that we are hoping for optimum weather conditions in a month like February and it’s not going to happen, and we could just wait until May, but where would be the adrenalin rush in that? Where would be the opportunity for people to walk past us as we change, oohing and aahing and saying how they just don’t know how we do it? What would we moan about if it wasn’t that the waves were too big, too punchy, too sneaky, too irritating or just too damn wavey? We would have to complain about real life stuff and that would never do.

We aren’t in for long. I am not sure it would qualify as a swim. It begins with a lot of swear words as we wade out towards the horizon, a gabbled countdown before we throw ourselves forward, several strokes, a few more for luck, the moment when our entire beings go numb and we have no speech, thought or sense and then we turn back, racing to the shallows. Then there’s some rigorous towel drying, speed dressing and third in the queue at the just opened Kiosk. When I sit in a deck chair, hands wrapped around my coffee cup and look at the sea we have just come out of, it’s with a mix of relief and joy.

Speaking of sewage - part of my scintillating conversation with Ros as we pulled our thermals back on and I could tell she was hanging on my every word - the pump in our treatment tank has packed up. I still find it hard to get my head around these things because I spent 35 years of my life on mains drainage. Oh how fondly I now reminisce over London’s Victorian sewage system and how keenly I wish that my poo wasn’t my problem.

Before a summit with the local drainage company, I popped to the accountant - known as Finance Dad between Steve and I because his role seems to go beyond submitting our tax returns. I needed counsel about the ridiculous new rules for Sole Traders and whether I could soft shoe shuffle my way out of some of them. Surely, they aren’t all applicable to me?! Well, yes they are, said Finance Dad, and by the way here is your next tax bill. Hopes dashed against the rocks of freelance jeopardy, I went home to stare into an abyss of actual shit which felt fitting for my mood.

We spoke to the drainage heroes who were surprisingly encouraging about us trying to solve the issue ourselves because they didn’t want to send an engineer and saddle us with a call out charge. They talked us through the practical moves of isolating the problem, which began with the electrics and then came down to putting a broom handle into the murky depths of the tank and fishing around for the submersible pump which refused to budge. Sorry if you are having your lunch.

‘You sound like capable, practical people,’ John said on speakerphone and Steve and I looked at each other like the emoji where the eyes are huge circles of concern. ‘Actually, we are really not,’ I said firmly. ‘Nonsense,’ he said and I wondered how we could convey our ineptitude in all house maintenance issues. ‘Take hold of the cable and pull,’ he suggested. ‘Don’t fall in!’ we joked to each other. At which point the cable detached, Steve lurched ominously and there was a touch and go moment when we all went silent. John began to realise he had overestimated our ability whereby I said I was more than happy to pay handsomely for their expertise in this area and when could they get here.

And that is where we are currently, but I would hate to leave you on this crappy note, particularly as it is almost the weekend so here are some cheering/rallying things from my week.

Lorraine Candy’s wise and reassuring parenting advice, particularly vital for those of us navigating exam season. I have one doing A Levels and one doing GCSEs and it’s hard going. Mainly for them, but also for me.

Harriet Evans on why AI has no place in publishing. ‘It sounds so extremely obvious to say that you shouldn’t use Gen AI to write your novel that I am astounded it needs to be said, but there we are and here we are. Today the Bookseller reports that literary agents are adapting their submission guidelines to reflect this. In particular Greene and Heaton, one of the most reputable literary agents out there, (Sarah Waters anyone?) have very politely said that they can tell when someone has used Gen AI.’ Well said Harriet and my agents, Greene and Heaton.

Marian Keyes and BBC’s The Walsh Sisters which I LOVE. It’s like they are actual sisters. Outstandingly good so far and reminds me of the early days of great series like Cold Feet and This Life.

Just finished reading Lissa Evans Small Bomb at Dimperely and it’s so well crafted, brilliant characters, funny, a crumbling stately home… I think we may have worked together back in my BBC days 300 years ago, so I used that as an excuse to hunt her down on social media and ask her if she would ever consider a sequel because I am now bereft without Lady Vere Thisset.

Ramona’s Jalapeno Houmous which I have bought after several recommendations including India Knight’s recent post, and I am counting down to 7pm when I can scoop mounds of it with a bag of ready salted, washed down with a zingy Campari. Cheers!