Well, this is supposed to be this weekend. The weekend I take us down and admire the hard work by saying something like:

“Wow! It looks totally different”, or

“Thank you so much for doing this for us”, or

“I can see how much you’ve done. I can’t believe you did all this in a week”.

Or, all of the above. Or variations on them, anyway.

The weather is crap. This feels like it’s Wimbledon fortnight in the UK. Every day is rain. sometimes torrential rain. Like yesterday when it absolutely tipped down for a couple of hours and when, on my way home, not far from work, part of the road had errupted in a way not dissimilar to a small volcano just about shut all air traffic in Southern Europe.

And the weather will remain crap, according to the forecast, until Sunday at least. But F is quite determined we should go down. I think it’s mainly for the comments above. Or, maybe, to make sure I’m happy to go down afterwards. Since he’s not a man of words or explanation, I can only guess.

But I do want to go down. I want to see it, I want to see where our beach place is, I want to ensure it will be easy to go to his Mum’s place, etc.

His Mum is, he says, very happy that the place has been done up and we are to go down often. She was always unhappy about the place being left ‘to rot’, I know that. The by-product of us going down is that she will, of course, see her son more.

All round a good thing.

One just hopes that the weather forecast is wrong and the good weather starts on Saturday instead.