The Art of Packing

We are going to the beach for Easter; we leave at dawn.

A kind friend, who felt sorry for us following run in with the law (such as it is here), has found us a house to stay in and insisted we take a few days break.

I asked the children to pile what they needed for five days at the sea-side on my bed in order that I could pack. Hattie produced two dresses and a skirt. No undies, no swimming costume, no hat. ‘Oops’, she giggled and scuttled off to gather the necessary.

Amelia, who the last time I asked her to pack for a holiday to the beach packed 18 pairs of knickers (for 4 days) and 3 bikini tops, has managed marginally better this time: 3 pairs of knickers and bikini tops with matching bottoms. When I enquired why so few undies, she told me she wasn’t planning to wear underwear much.

I can’t be bothered to investigate this further.

Ben, being a bloke – and thus as anal as his father – has packed precisely what is required for five days away, down to matching t-shirts and shorts; he will omit nothing and bring nothing superfluous.

I wish I was that good.

*************************************

A walk.

I spy half a dozen Marabou Storks atop a big Fig tree; Marabou hang around dead things, dressed in moth-eaten old men’s coats.

I suspect they are drawn by the scent of the farm’s demise. They’re waiting to feast on what’s left after the receivers have been in.

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